


The Bleeding

by Sshorty



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Bodily Fluids, Bodily Functions, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Injury, Injury Recovery, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Inspired by The Witcher, Kaer Morhen, Mentioned Witchers (The Witcher), POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pain, Sick Character, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, The White Wolf, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Torture, Velen (The Witcher), Vomiting, Whump, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), butcher of blaviken
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sshorty/pseuds/Sshorty
Summary: Geralt's been taken hostage, but with his already crippling injuries, he'd rendered defenseless. Will he be able to escape the torture, and will he be able to get help for his wounds before it's too late?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic! Please be kind :)

Geralt's body jolted as ice cold water hit his skin, causing him to writhe in shock. He gasped in response, accidentally breathing water into his lungs, which resulted in the Witcher spluttering and coughing clear them. The shock had drawn him back to the present, having slipped unconscious from the pain he was enduring.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his face, fingers digging into his cheeks as his head was yanked upwards to face his captor. Geralt had never seen the guy in his life, and through one eye he could hardly make out the man's face, confused, his vision blurry. His left eye was black, dark purple, red, and swollen so much he couldn't open it. It throbbed, and there was no doubt that his eye socket was fractured, at the very least... if his eye even still worked...

  
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you." The man spoke, his face so close to Geralt's that droplets of spit landed on the Witcher's face. Geralt could barely focus, pain coursing through his right arm, starting in his shoulder joint, and running down into his fingertips. He shivered, his skin dripping wet now from the water. His armour was gone, and he'd been left in just his trousers, his feet and upper body bare to the biting of the cold air. His knee throbbed, but he couldn't shift his weight to take the pressure off his leg and arm... he tried, but it slowly dawned on him that he was barely even on his tiptoes. His arms were suspended above his head, tied at the wrists with thick ropes, and his entire body weight was hanging from them...

  
Geralt did his best to focus on the man's face, breathing as evenly as he could whilst he attempted to ignore the pain. A smug smile was plastered on his captor's face, clearly pleased with himself for having captured a Witcher... in fact, not just any Witcher; The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken. The man looked rough, bald, his tanned and skin dirty and wrinkled from years of sun damage. He had scars over his head, tattoos on his head and his entire body. A Witch Hunter, that much Geralt could tell... he'd seen some of those tattoos before, and that uniform. Seeing Geralt's eyes finally focus, the man smirked.

  
"Good lad..." He teased, but this didn't go down well with an already pissed off Witcher. Geralt had deliberately refrained from swallowing since he'd felt the rough fingers gripping his cheeks, and he spat a mouth full of saliva in the Witch Hunter's face... perhaps not his best idea ever, but it was all he had right now in defence. The man's grip on Geralt's cheeks disappeared, but his head was suddenly thrown back, hit with the force of a fist to the face. He cried out in pain as his weight swung off his shoulders, the punch causing his lip to split and the taste of blood to pool in his mouth. The Hunter stepped away, wiping his face with his arm in digust.

  
Geralt took the moment to compose himself as best he could, opening his only working eye and glancing around the room for potential escape points. He spat the blood from his mouth as he scanned the room, his mutations allowing his vision to see more than most in such a dark room. It was lit by only a few candles, and there were no windows. From how quiet and cold it was, the moisture on the stone walls, and the earthy scent that filled his lungs, he guessed they were under ground. Great... a dungeon... a crumbling one at that... his best guess was that the Witch Hunter's had set up camp in an abandoned fort, and judging by the old skeleton across the room, still chained to the wall, he was right.

  
"You're going to regret that." The Hunter snarled as he finally walked back over having wiped his face dry, his chest puffed out in an attempt to make himself look larger. Yes, he was a bulky man already, but had Geralt been untied, and not injured, he'd have stood no chance against the Witcher. It seemed the captor wanted to take advantage of the chains stopping Geralt from moving, his fists balling up. There was nothing Geralt could do, but let the following enslaught happen. He tried to fight back, but because his toes barely touched the floor, he couldn't get enough of a footing to even kick back. Instead, he just clenched his teeth, and braced himself for the beating.

  
\-----------------------------------------------------------

  
Time dragged, minutes felt like hours, until finally it seemed that the Witch Hunter had had his fill. Geralt was bruised, and barely conscious as he swung from the chains suspending him. Blood dripped from his chin, his lip split, his nose broken. His lips were slightly parted so he could breathe past the swelling in his nasal passages, shaking as he tried to catch his breath. He had tried his best to fight back, getting an opportunity at one point to bite the Witch Hunter on the wrist, and he had managed to knee the man in the balls too, but it was a weak attempt at self defence compared to his usual efforts.

  
It seemed like an eternity before the Hunter finally unchained him. The Witcher's legs couldn't hold his weight, a pain shooting through his already injured leg as he tried to catch his balance. Instead he just dropped, slumping like a ragdoll onto the wet floor, shivering. The Witch Hunter laughed, smirking down at Geralt, who was barely awake on the cold stone slabs.

  
"Hey, Vadral! Come see this." The Witch Hunter laughed, and through the only door in and out of the room, another Witch Hunter entered. He cheered, and clapped at the sight of the white-haired man curled up on the floor, trembling. The great Geralt of Rivia, cowering like a child, black and blue.

  
"Menge's gonna be pleased when he finds out about this, Xavier." The man called Vadral chuckled with pride.

  
"He is, but first... we're going to have some of our own fun..." The larger man smirked. "Get some more rope, and a knife..."

  
Geralt felt his stomach knot at the words... he didn't like the sound of that, but he couldn't find the strength to move. He was freezing, the cold air biting at his bare skin, and he'd never warmed through from the icy bucket thrown over him to wake him from his unconscious state. He was in agony, his knee hurt, but most of all, his shoulder. He couldn't move his right arm, his shoulder deformed and swollen. He knew it was dislocated, and his wrist was swollen and bruised, likely broken. With his sword-wielding arm so badly injured, there was no way he'd be able to fight his way out.

  
The rope tying his wrists together was cut, and he groaned in pain as his arms were moved, and fresh rope was wrapped securely around his wrists. He winced as he was dragged by both men across the floor, and he was hauled up into a seated position, is bare back pressed against the damp, cold stone wall. His head flopped forward on his shoulders as his arms were lifted and tied out to his sides, his elbows only slightly bent so he could still breathe. He was secured to two iron hoops on the wall. Fingers knotted into his white hair, and his head was pulled back with a sharp yank so he was forced to look up at the first man.

  
"Now stay... good dog." The hunter snarled, before landing a fist with force into Geralt's stomach. The Witcher cried out in pain, his head dropping on his shoulders again, and he heard the door close, a heavy lock, then the voices and footsteps faded into silence. It didn't take long for the pain to become too much, and Geralt soon drifted out of consciousness, letting the darkness take him.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------

  
Days passed, and the Witcher received not one visit from the Witch Hunters. He wasn't sure how long he'd been in there, but he'd spent most of the time in a meditative state, trying to compartmentalise the pain he was enduring, and the hunger that twisted in his stomach. It was dark now the candles had burnt out, even dark for his cat-like eyes, but he could just make out the light of the crack beneath the door. His swollen eye had healed a little, the swelling going down enough for it to open now, but still not completely. He had no idea what he looked like, but he knew he would be a mess. His nose felt crusty with dried blood, but he couldn't wipe his face, his arms still tied out to the sides. His shoulder, still dislocated, hurt most of all, and his wrist had started to heal, but what concerned him the most was the fact that it hadn't been straightened and set before the healing started.

  
Geralt let his head rest wearily against the wall behind him, and he swallowed hard, his throat dry and sore from thirst. He was used to going long periods of time without fluids and sustinance, especially when work was hard to find, and hunting was fruitless, but he could usually find some running water to quench his thirst at the very least. He could hear dripping across the room, moisture falling from the cei

ling into a small puddle on the floor, and it almost felt as though the dungeon, itself, were mocking him. The slow, steady drips caused him to lick his lips, his throat felt gritty, his mouth dry as a desert... he did his best to ignore it, but it wasn't easy.  
His eyes closed, and he was about to go back into meditation, when the sound of footsteps gradually faded into hearing range. He lifted his head curiously, his eyes opening again, and he watched as shadows moved beyond gap beneath the door. Keys rattled, metal of locks claching and scraping against the metal of the door. It swung open, light from the candles outside filling the room. Geralt could tell from the sillhouette that it was Xavier, the first Witch Hunter he'd had the misfortune to meet. The man stepped into the room, and he moved about, replacing the burnt out candles and lighting the new ones until the room was bright enough to see in.

  
"Aaah, good morning, Sleeping Beauty... warm enough?" Xavier smirked, and he paced over to Geralt who was still sat where he'd been left, shivering from the cold of the wet stone pressed to his back. Geralt didn't reply. He didn't want to even acknowledge the man stood before him.

  
"Figured you might be thirsty." Xavier continued as he paced over, hands on his hips. He'd brought a large waterskin, which was practically bursting. Geralt frowned as he eyed it up, suspicious, but his body was crying out for something to drink. He licked his dry, cracked lips in anticipation of some water. His head throbbed, a clear sign of dehydration. The Witch Hunter pulled the cork out, and he knelt down in front of the Witcher. Geralt tilted his head back, welcoming the drink as the waterskin was pressed to his lips, and he began to gulp, the water slipping down his raw throat and into the empty pit of his stomach. It was cold, but the coldness of it soothed the dry, razor-like pain of his throat...

  
His eyes were closed at first as he drank his fill, feeling the bliss of finally ending his thirst, but slowly his eyes opened when it dawned on him that the water tasted odd... it tasted earthy, oily, and he realised that the water wasn't fresh at all. He was being given stagnant water. He tried to stop drinking, but Xavier grasped tightly onto his jaw, clamping his hand over Geralt's lips to hold his head firmly in place and the bottle firmly in his lips. He continued to tip the water into Geralt's mouth, a smirk on his face as he watched his captive struggle, spluttering as he tried his hardest to not swallow, but he had little choice. The Witcher struggled in his restraints, but it did nothing more than send a searing pain through his arm and torso. He tried to cry out, but ended up inhaling some of the water, which just kept coming. It ran down his front from where it leaked at the corners of his mouth, soaking his now dry trousers, but there was nowhere most of it could go but down his throat. As though the motion of his throat was involuntary, his body continued to swallow, until his stomach was barely able to take any more.

  
Finally, Xavier let him pull his head free, and Geralt gasped for air, retching and coughing as the waterskin was tossed aside. The Witcher's belly was distended slightly, swollen from the liquid within... he must have swallowed a good few litres of water, which now sat heavily in his stomach... and from his last experience with drinking stagnant water, Geralt wasn't looking forward to what was to come. As he coughed, his stomach made a thick, sloshing sound from the sheer quantity of water within, and he felt a little sick at the sensation.

  
Without another word, Xavier got up and left the room, locking the door behind him. Geralt was in shock, but he managed to pull at the ropes again, feeling them rubbing at his wrists enough to make him stop again. The friction hurt his already raw wrists from previous failed attempts to twist his hands out. His stomach gurgled in protest at the movements, and eventually he sank back against the wall again, giving up. He felt a little breathless, the pressure in his stomach was uncomfortable, and all he could do was wait for what was in store for him.

  
An hour or so passed, he wasn't sure, but his stomach had bloated even more. The water was moving through him, causing cramps thanks to the bugs and bacteria living in it. He felt sick, and his guts gurgled in agreement. His eyes were still shut as he tried to meditate through the pain, but a fever had risen in him, and sweat dripped down his skin, despite the chattering of his teeth. He shifted position, his butt hurting from the hard stone he'd sat on for days now, but it proved to be a bad idea when his stomach burbled in protest. He groaned, and he was sure his usually pale complextion had turned a shade of green as nausea bubbled up into his throat. His stomach sloshed as his abdominal muscles contracted involuntarily, and he retched. He tried to keep the water down, but it proved impossible, and with a wet belch, liquid spewed from his lips and notrils.

  
Every time he got a chance to catch his breath, more bubbled up, and it almost felt as though it wouldn't stop. His stomach gurgled in protest once more when he finally seemed to get a break, and he panted for air, spitting to clear his mouth. The swelling of his belly had gone down a little, but he now had the delight of sitting, covered in his own vomit, until he was either moved, or he died... and right now, the latter option seemed somewhat appealing...

  
His belly continued to churn, gurgling now and then as his guts tried to digest what was left of the stagnant water, and he let his head hang from his shoulders as he tried to breathe through the pain and rolling nausea. His entire abdomen was soon being hit by waves of cramping, which made him want to curl into a ball, but he physically couldn't. Each wave of pain caused him to grow weaker and weaker, until eventually it all became too much, and he passed out.


	2. As The Darkness Settles In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if things couldn't get any worse, Geralt's nightmare takes a sharp turn (pun intended).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've a few more chapters of this already written up, but need to edit them before posting :) not sure how long it'll go for, but I hope you enjoy it all the same! 
> 
> PSA: Mentions of bodily functions and fluids in this chapter.

"What the fuck?!" A disgusted voice filled the room as the door opened, the candles were burning low now, and would soon burn out. Xavier stepped into the room, greeted by the smell of vomit, and even worse, faeces. He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat, but an evil smile stretched over his face as he looked over at the Witcher, dried vomit coating his torso, legs and crotch, and the floor before him. 

  
"Vadral, fetch a bucket of water from the well." Xavier ordered as he moved closer. He could hear the Witcher's guts gurgling, and he knew from the smell and sight that he must have lost control of his bowels. He laughed in amusement, then stood up, stepping back towards the door as Vadral came pacing in with a full bucket. 

  
"Look at that... the great Butcher of Blaviken's shit himself." Xavier laughed, and he took the bucket. Whilst he wanted Geralt to suffer, he wanted to have some more fun yet... with a strong swing, he tossed the entire contents of the bucket over the restrained Witcher, but this time, Geralt didn't jolt awake. In fact, he remained still... so much so that Xavier felt he might have passed away. 

  
With the vomit and other bodily fluids washed off his skin, Xavier now approached the motionless man. He bent down, and he grabbed Geralt by the hair, pulling his head up so he could see his face. Between the bruising and swelling, there was still colour in his face and he was still breathing, so that was good... Xavier grasped the Witcher's trousers at the ankles and yanked the soiled garments off, tossing them aside. He poured more ice cold water over Geralt's now naked body, washing away what was left of the excrement he'd been sitting in.

  
"Go fetch a clean pair of trousers." Xavier spoke as he stood back up. "We can't have him stinking of shit, with his prick out, when Menge gets here." 

  
Vadral did as asked, and soon returned with a pair of dirty old trousers, possibly stolen off a corpse. One leg was torn to above the knee, but they looked big enough for the Witcher, at least. Xavier and Vadral worked together to pull them back on the motionless Witcher, hoping the upset rumbles running through the unconscious man's guts wouldn't render their efforts pointless in a matter of minutes. They stood up and took a step back, when heavy footsteps sounded, and the leader of the Witch Hunters came into view. 

  
"I told you idiots we needed him alive!" Menge snapped as he eyed the motionless White Wolf, "and what's that stench?" His first impression was that Geralt was dead, but after another loud gurgling sound from the Witcher's belly, and a suspicious look from the leader, Xavier spoke up. 

  
"He is alive," Xavier turned to Menge with a slight smirk, "though seems he couldn't control his bowels."

  
Menge paced over to the Witcher, and crouched down beside him. He studied the man's body, seeing his dislocated shoulder, the way his wrist was twisted and his knee was bruised and swollen. He was already covered in bruises, and this seemed to delight Menge. A corner of his mouth turned up in amusement... they had them right where they wanted him... weak, unable to fight back.

"Let's see if we can get him to squeal..." Menge mused out loud as he stood back up. "Hook him up..." 

  
Together, the Witch Hunters unbound Geralt, then they lifted him, suspending him from the hook again with his arms once again taking his weight. His shoulder pulled even more out of line, and they were sure that, if Geralt had been conscious, he'd have screamed. Being jostled about had caused him to stir though, and once he had stopped swinging from the hook, weakly, his eyes opened and his head slowly lifted. He had managed to push the pain to the back of his mind for the most part, but it had suddenly become even harder to maintain. He blinked hard, his black eye barely open, and he tried to get his eyes to focus, but all he could see was a blur... the room spun around him, seeing double. 

  
His intestines twisted again with a thick gurgling sound and he moaned, his body wanting to curl up into a ball. His eyes pressed shut and he swallowed hard, but thankfully he didn't vomit again... though he'd be amazed if he had anything left to throw up. He could feel some movement in his guts though, but he couldn't focus enough to worry about it. 

Suddenly, a sharp pain slowly scraped across his bare chest, a sharp dagger splitting his skin with ease, like a warm knife through butter. He cried out in agony, his body twisting as he tried to get free, but like before, he was barely on his toes and couldn't get a steady footing. 

  
"Welcome, White Wolf... glad you could join us." Menge smirked when Geralt finally stopped the pained cries, brandishing the dagger which was now glistening red with blood. Geralt didn't speeak, trying to get his eyes to focus on the face infront of him. He knew the voice, but he couldn't muster energy enough to reply.

  
"We can do this the easy way... or the hard way... you just have to tell me, where is that red haired sorceress of yours?" Menge asked, pressing the tip of the blade against his chest enough to cause pain, but not enough to draw blood. Geralt didn't speak, just glared at Menge with a hard expression. There was no way he was going to find out from Geralt... he'd rather die that give up Triss's location. 

  
The silence angered Menge, and slowly, he sliced across Geralt's chest again, leaving a cross shape on his chest, blood trickling from the wounds. Menge seemed to relish in the sight of blood pooling in the wound, before trickling freely down damp skin. Geralt screamed once more, writhing again, pulling at the restraints, but the pain in his arm was too strong. Still, he didn't speak, or give them what they wanted.

  
Menge kept going, until Geralt's chest was shredded, lines cut into his pale flesh all over. Blood ran down his chest, soaking into the top of the trousers he'd been given. Each time, he cried out in pain, but he didn't say a word... this made Menge impatient, and he sent Xavier off to get a metal bucket filled with hot cinders. A poker was sitting in the bucket, heating up, but Geralt's eyes were closed, his head hung on his shoulders. He could smell blood, the metallic smell so strong he could almost tasted it, but it masked the smell of the cinders.

  
Menge took the poker in his hand, and walking around Geralt, he pressed the length of the glowing hot poker across the centre of Geralt's back. His flesh hissed, smoke rising. His back arched as pain caused him to contort, his skin sticking to the glowing hot metal pressed against it. Still, no answer though...

  
Menge tore the poker away from his back, and he placed the hot poker back in the bucket to heat up again, He returned to the Witcher who was panting for breath now through the pain, his body shaking. This time, the poker pressed across his stomach, causing him to cry out again, but his voice was growing hoarse. He twisted against the restraints, but still gave no answer. 

  
Angered, the Witch Hunters' leader turned to walk away, but he paused. Suddenly, with a swift swing, he hit the poker across Geralt's already swollen knee, and with a cracking sound, his knee cap shattered from the impact. Geralt let out a blood curdling scream, loud enough that it was likely heard in the camp above ground. The pain was too much to handle, and he was losing blood quickly. He felt himself fighting to stay conscious. The edges of his vision were blurring, turning black. 

  
The leader shoved the poker back into the bucket, and he stormed off without a word, defeated by the Witcher's silence... for now at least. Xavier ad Vadral unhooked Geralt and dragged him back to the restraints on the wall. Geralt couldn't walk now, in fact he couldn't support his own body weight, and they had to carry him. The movement caused pain to shoot through his whole body, and he couldn't cope. His eyes slowly closed, and he slipped unconscious once more. 

  
The following days were hell. He was tortured daily, the hot poker, water torture, beatings... they tried breaking his thumbs, pulled the fingernails from his right hand, but he just wouldn't talk... whether he could was a question in itself though, because the screams of agony had practically shredded his throat, not to mention vomiting on a regular basis. They didn't feed him much, only a couple of mouthfuls a day, but each morsel they provided him with was either covered in mould, or rotten meat. His stomach rejected it each time, but try as they might, they just couldn't get him to speak, they couldn't get him to give away Triss's location. 


	3. Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom finally finds Geralt in the form of two familiar faces, but Geralt is in a bad way, and for once the Witcher needs to accept help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the worst chapter for bodily fluid/function mentions, so if it's too much, don't worry, it improves from here haha

It was dark and cold, night had set in and the Witch Hunters had retired to their tents to rest. Geralt was unconscious, strung up by the wall, when the sound of footsteps filled the corridor outside the door. Two pairs of footsteps, one quicker than the other, and they grew louder as they rapidly approached. The lock rattled, and the heavy door swung open. 

  
"Good gods, the smell!" A gruff voice sounded in the darkness, a thick Dwarven accent in the words. The room lit up as another man entered with a lantern in his hand. 

  
The room was dark, and the air was thick with the smell of burnt flesh, damp, vomit, faeces and urine. They moved across the room, until the candle light caught the faint form of a man slumped at the base of a wall, his arms tied out to the sides. The men dashed cover, setting the lantern down, and one of them reached out to lift the unconscious man's head. Long white hair stuck to his grime covered face, his eye bruised, his nose broken and twisted to one side, and his lip swollen and covered with blood. It was him... 

  
"Geralt!" The dwarf gasped, and the two men glanced over the Witcher's body. His trousers were wet with urine, and he's clearly defacated as well. He looked thinner, his chest and back covered in a latticework of fresh wounds, the blood clotted and scabbed. There were burns amongst it, raw flesh that oozed pus from infection. His shoulder was twisted and out of line, and his wrists were rubbed raw. Geralt's right wrist was swollen, black from bruising, and his knee was the same though definitely a fresher injury.

  
Quickly, the dwarf cut through the ropes with a knife to free his wrists, and Geralt's unconscious body flopped to one side. The taller, lankier man stopped the fall just in time, catching his head so it didn't crack against the floor. His guts made a nauseating gurgle, and the men glanced at each other with a look of concern and dread on their faces... so that was why he'd defecated on himself...

  
"Zoltan, we have to get him out of here before someone finds us... or something else happens..." A well spoken man said, sounding panicked and anxious. He gently laid Geralt down on his side, and he glanced over the Witcher's body, only to spot the swollen, bruised knee. Shit... that wasn't going to help at all. "His knee... I think it's broken." 

  
Zoltan swore under his breath when he heard this news, but he knew they had to get moving. He grabbed Geralt's legs, and signalled the other man to get his arms, and together, the man and dwarf silently carried the unconscious man out of the dungeon. They took the long route, through storage rooms, until they found a drop-hatch for barrels. Perfect! A way out! Opening it from the inside, they managed to heave his body out of the hatch, and carry him off into the bushes of the surrounding woodland. 

\----------------------------------------

  
The sound of a lute caught his attention at first. He listened, confused... had he died? He didn't remember death sounding this musical... at least, not the last time his heart had stopped. Wait... his heart was beating... albeit a little slower than usual, but beating all the same... fresh but warm air surrounded him, his skin felt clean now, and his clothes weren't soaked in his own filth. He hurt though... badly. Slowly the sensations in his body were returning, worst of all were his right arm and his left knee...   
He focused on his breathing at first, listening to the music, until a familiar voice began to sing, and his eyes cracked open. At first, he squinted at the shapes above him, a blurry mess of shadows. Blinking hard, his eyes gradually settled on the wooden beams above him. He was warm, the sound of a fire crackling nearby was a welcome one, and he realised that there was a weight on his chest... a blanket covered him, and on top of that were cloaks, shirts... anything to keep the heat in to try warm him through; one would have been forgiven for thinking he had hypothermia when they found him. 

  
He swallowed, his throat bone dry, which hurt and caused him to cough. The sound was horrendous, raspy and weak. He pressed his eyes shut again, but the music stopped and gently, a hand scooped his head up slightly from the soft bed he was laying on. Cool, fresh water passed between his lips and after a moment's hesitation, Geralt swallowed. It wasn't stagnant, and soothed his throat, calmed the burning of his throat that the acidic stomach contents had caused, and eased that painful ache in his stomach. A witcher's stomach acid was stronger than an average human's in order to break down foods that were harder to digest, and so the burning had been more intense with each round of vomiting he'd experienced, the acids becoming more concentrated with his stomach getting emptier. His eyes opened a little, and he blinked a few times to clear them, only to gaze wearily up into the concerned face of his old friend, Dandelion, who lowered the cup of water from his lips. 

  
"Welcome back, Geralt..." Dandelion smiled warmly, but concern never left his eyes. He'd never known Geralt this weak before, never seen him so badly hurt and unwell, and it scared him. The bard scanned Geralt's face, studying his black eye, which was now every possible colour a bruise could be, his nose was still bruised and swollen, his lip still split but not as swollen now. The Witcher seemed like he was struggling to keep his eyes open, so Dandelion gently set his head back down again. Those golden eyes closed again, but only for a few moments.

  
"D...Dandelion... how did..." Geralt rasped, his voice sounded painful, and Dandelion cut him off before he had time to finish the question. 

  
"Don't speak, save your voice. It doesn't matter... we'll explain later... we need to get you somewhere safe." Dandelion was well aware they were too close to the fort they'd found Geralt in. They'd found Roach nearby... the faithful mare followed Geralt everywhere and was never far behind... and they'd managed to get his horse to carry him a safe distance from the Witch Hunter's camp, but they knew that they'd be out looking... they had to keep moving, and time was limited, but Geralt was in no fit state to move far. 

  
Geralt's stomach churned, still very much upset from his limited diet of rotten food, and he pressed his eyes a little tighter shut in response to the cramping, which soon faded away again.   
He let out a shallow sigh, and tried to lift his arm to rub his face, but a sharp shock ran through his arm and shoulder, causing him to hiss in pain. His eyes pressed tight shut, and he lifted his other arm, placing his shaking hand over his shoulder. It appeared his arm was in a sling, his shoulder no longer dislocated, but still it hurt all the same. 

  
"Careful!" Dandelion scolded him, then stood up beside the bed he'd been perched on the edge of. He moved to Geralt's head, and gently sliding an arm around the Witcher's back, he helped the older man sit up right in the bed. Arranging the pillows behind him against the headboard, the bard helped him shuffle back in the bed and recline against them, so he was in a more upright position. Geralt couldn't help but let out a groan in pain as he moved. His entire torso, front and back, was littered with wounds and burns, some infected, some not, some had started to heal thanks to the mutations that sped up his healing processes. Without his ability to slow his metabolism and pulse at will, there's no way he would have survived the torture. His immune system was better equipped to fight off infection too, so the wounds in his chest weren't as much of a threat as they'd have posed to an ordinary human. His broken wrist was of the most concern though... it had sustained his weight for far too long, and was no doubt starting to heal in the wrong position.

  
"Where are we?" Geralt managed to speak, forcing his vocal chords to form words, which honestly hurt far more than it should have done. His sensitive hearing could pick up the faint chatter and laughter of people elsewhere in the building, over the sound of his rumbling guts. He glanced around the room, which was lavishly decorated in red velvet, golden decor, silk bedding... There were fresh roses around the room, and the smell of incense. It looked familiar, somehow, and too well decorated for an inn. 

  
"A brothel..." Dandelion admitted with a shrug, much to Geralt's surprise. He glanced up at the Witcher, then continued to explain, "I couldn't take you to an inn, it would be far too obvious... and in your state, a brothel would be the last place they'd think of searching, there's no way you'd be able to-" 

  
"Wanna bet...?" Geralt scoffed sarcastically, though really he knew the bard was right. He could barely move, let alone make love. He lifted his head and looked down at himself to see that he had been washed, cleaned, bandaged up and had a clean pair of trousers on, albeit a little loose for him, and short on the leg. He suddenly felt the slightest wave of embarrassment wash over him... as much was possibly for a Witcher, anyway, and he muttered quietly, "...wait... did you... bathe me?" Dandelion laughed, and shook his head, perching on the edge of the bed again.

"No, thank goodness!" He'd seen Geralt naked before, but he wouldn't choose to if he had another option. "The Madame and I, we know each other well through the Chameleon, but she certainly wouldn't let you in any of the beds covered in your own filth... let's just say, the girls here were keen to see famous White Wolf up close..." 

  
In Geralt's weakened state, it took a moment to process what Dandelion was saying. So, the courtesans had bathed him? They'd cleaned him of his own sick, blood, and worse? He frowned a little as the thought ran through his head because cleaning a man of his own shit was not something anybody would want to do, much less when it wasn't your job nor were you getting paid to do it... he made a mental note to come back to this establishment as soon as he was well enough and... repay them... but then his mind wandered even further and another image filled his brain... in a tub, surrounded by beautiful women as they bathed him... normally he would have been aroused, but right now he hurt too much. 

  
"And you didn't wake me?" He pouted slightly, a sarcastic response that caused Dandelion to roll his eyes. Their conversation was interrupted, though, when Geralt's guts let out another thick gurgle, which he felt move across the left side of his lower belly. He placed his good hand over the area, and swallowed hard, turning paler. 

  
"Please don't tell me..." Dandelion glanced at Geralt, who looked tense and uncomfortable. Another gurgle answered his unfinished question, and Dandelion was quickly on his feet. He scrambled to grab the bucket across the room that he'd kept close by in case this the Witcher was sick, knowing he wasn't going to enjoy this one bit. He hoped he could stomach it, but from how helpless his old friend was right now, he knew he had little choice but to try. He set the bucket down with a thud, and quickly, he helped the Witcher to the edge of the bed and pulled his trousers down. 

  
Geralt's hand continued to clutch his belly, feeling his bowels rumble beneath his hand. He did his best to help Dandelion move him, but everything hurt, and now he knew something had to come out, whether he wanted it or not. He was no stranger to sickness and diarrhoea, often eating something that had gone off or old meat because he had little choice, but he'd never had to have someone hold him up before whilst he relieved himself. Dandelion struggled, heaving Geralt to his feet, and he managed to lower him down to the bucket, which was no easy task given the Witcher's injured knee and shoulder, not to mention his muscular weight. 

  
Dandelion supported his friend for what felt like an age, doing his best to not hurl, but also trying to not make Geralt feel any more humiliated than he already did. When Geralt was sure he was finally done and cleaned up, Dandelion heaved him onto the bed again. Geralt was paler now, a cold sweat glistening on his skin, and his intestines gurgled from the trauma. He curled up on his side on the bed, and wrapped his good arm around his middle, as if he could muffle the sounds of his innards. He closed his eyes, shivering, and Dandelion covered him up with the blankets again. He ran to the windows and threw them open, then picked up the bucket and dashed outside to clean up. He wasn't happy about it, but he knew Geralt couldn't help it so wouldn't give his friend grief... he was sure Geralt would have done the same for him. 

  
When the bucket was clean and washed out, he carried it back upstairs. Setting it down, he glanced over at his friend and sighed in sympathy. He walked over, refilling his cup of water so it was ready for him when he wanted it, knowing he would be dehydrated. Dandelion placed a hand on Geralt's forehead, feeling how cold he was. He sighed, and heading to the fire, he stoked it, adding more fuel. The window being open allowed for ventilation to get rid of the smell, but it also caused a draught, so as soon as the room was aired out, he closed it. By this time, the fire was roaring nicely, and Geralt seemed to have settled at least a little. Dandelion pulled the Witcher's hair back and tied it out of his face, just in case, then left his friend to rest.   
The bard was on edge as he sat on a chair near the bed. He could hear Geralt's upset stomach as it gurgled away, and he wished there was something he could do to help. Unfortunately, he knew that it would just take time, and a bit of TLC, so he picked up his notebook and went back to his poetry, anything to pass the time. 

  
After some time, Geralt's cold sweat passed, the damp sheets drying out from the heat of the fire, and his stomach seemed to settle. He'd stopped shivering, his face had relaxed, his lips parted, and his breathing softened as he drifted into a well needed sleep. 

  
The Witcher slept for nearly twenty-four hours, nearly twenty-four hours in which Dandelion had managed to find time to entertain himself with some of the girls. He'd found Zoltan, who'd disappeared for some time, fast asleep at a table downstairs with a tankard in hand. He'd spent most of the time throwing money to one of the courtesans, but really he wasn't just wasting money and neglecting his friends; he'd been keeping watch, in case the Witch Hunters had found them. 

  
At one point, there'd been a tense moment, when the gang had rode into town, knocking on doors to ask if anybody had seen the White Wolf, but much to their dismay, nobody had witnessed them sneak into the brothel's back door, thanks to the Madame. The courtesans certainly weren't going to give up their secret either. They searched homes in the village, the inn, the merchant's shop... and at one point they'd entered the brothel, only to get beaten back out the door by the Madame with a broom, who yelled at them, telling them to get out if they weren't going to pay, and weren't interested in contributing to her girls' business... it was often standard procedure in brothels, though, and as Dandelion had predicted, they thought nothing of it and left... of course the Witcher wouldn't be there... his reputation was based on fact, yes, but in the state they'd left him there was no way he could wank, let alone handle a fiery courtesan. With that, the Witch Hunters moved on, leaving the town in peace. 

  
The close call had Dandelion and Zoltan on edge though, and they knew they had to move on. They were too close for comfort, and they had to get as far away as possible, as soon as possible. They packed their bags, and gathered Geralt's things together... well, what they had of them. Unfortunately, his gear had not been recovered, his swords stolen, his armour too, by the Witch Hunters, and there was no way they were going back for them. He would just have to get more... Zoltan gathered their horses outside the back door, tacking them up. He had gathered some rope, knowing Geralt might need some help staying in the saddle, and went back inside to the room his friends were in. 

  
Geralt was awake, and sat upright in the bed when the dwarf entered the room. The long period of sleep had done him good, but he was still weak, and his injuries were still there. He felt a little nauseous, but said nothing of it. Dandelion had just finished redressing his wounds, and was bandaging the bloodied rope burns on his left wrist up when Zoltan came in. 

  
"Madame Lisolette found this, thought it might fit..." Zoltan spoke as he came wandering over to the bed, a soft white linen shirt in hand, similar to the ones Geralt often wore. He set it down on the bed beside Geralt and Dandelion. Dandelion carefully removed Geralt's arm from the sling, hesitating when the Witcher hissed, wincing in pain. Geralt nodded though, allowing Dandelion to continue. He clenched his teeth and remained silent, until the sleeve was pulled over his arm. His hand out the cuff, his head through the hole, they carefully put his sling back on properly, then continued to dress him.

  
"Think you could manage to eat something? It's a long ride to Novigrad..." Zoltan asked from across the room where he had a couple of hunks of bread with butter on. He knew that Geralt hadn't been too well, but he also knew the Witcher needed to eat something... something not rotten for that matter. He needed his energy or they wouldn't make it.

  
"Hmm... Should at least try..." Geralt mused aloud, his voice still raw and painful sounding, though he wasn't entirely convinced it was a good idea. He took the bread Zoltan had brought, and slowly began to eat, whilst his friends bustled about, packing bags and loading the saddle bags. He swallowed the first mouthful, following it down with a sip of water, and almost groaned as he felt it hit the empty abyss of his stomach... it felt good to eat something fresh... he just hoped he could keep it down. 

  
When the Witcher's bread was finished, and the horses were ready to go, Dandelion came up to the room again. He carefully wrapped Geralt's good arm around his neck, and bracing the Witcher's weight over his shoulders, he heaved the larger man to his feet. Geralt could barely put his weight on his injured leg, his knee wrapped but still very much broken, and they helped him down the stairs. Finally seeing the Witcher conscious, the courtesans were more than happy to help as well, and they fussed over him. Geralt would have usually flirted back, but right now, he just didn't feel up to it. Every movement hurt.

  
As they left the brothel, the morning sun pierced Geralt's eyes, causing him to flinch a little at how bright it was compared to what he had grown used to. He'd been locked up underground, lucky to have even candle light, for a week, and they'd kept the curtains closed in the brothel to help keep the heat in the room and warm him through. The sunlight, whilst bright and making his head pound, was welcome though... it beamed down onto his skin, not to hot yet, but still enough to warm him. 

  
Finally out by the horses, it took a lot of effort to get Geralt mounted on Roach's back. They helped him to slip his feet into the stirrups, and using the rope, tied his injured leg into the stirrup so he wouldn't fall out. He took hold of the reins in his good hand, and glanced at Dandelion who joined him, riding up next to him on another horse, Zoltan sat behind him on the saddle. With the Dwarf and the Bard ready, and the Witcher as ready as he'd ever be, they set off, spurring their horses into a steady walk. They'd usually have gone faster, but Geralt's body wouldn't have coped with it.

  
Roach was steady, aware that her owner had injuries, and Geralt was thankful for it. Now and then, he'd give his faithful horse a gentle pat on the neck or shoulder. A few hours passed, but the steady rocking of the horse's steps was causing Geralt's stomach to churn, his small breakfast sat in his belly like lead, and he was growing more and more nauseous as they continued down the track. Gradually, he was feeling weaker and weaker, and he slouched in the saddle in a position that was far from his normal riding position.

  
Dandelion and Zoltan chatted away, laughing, reminiscing about past adventures, the times they'd had, both good and bad. They occasionally spoke to Geralt, who followed along behind them. Roach followed the other horse obediently so Geralt didn't even have to use the reins really. His right hand was cradleded against his middle, broken, wrapped up, his arm still in the sling. Despite this, though, he was staying alert to their surroundings as best he could... it was only natural instinct for him after all... not that he'd be any use if trouble did come; he was right handed, and there was no way he could swing a sword, if he even had one. 

  
Geralt was a man of few words to begin with, but he was particularly quiet as they rode along, and Dandelion kept glancing back to check on him. The more time that passed, though, the more he was growing concerned for his friend. He seemed even more unbalanced than when they'd first set off, and he'd seemed to grow even more pale than usual very quickly. Geralt's eyes were closing, and his left hand grasped onto the horn of the saddle to stop himself from toppling off. The sun had reached it's highest, and it was hot now, but not hot enough to explain the sweat glistening on the Witcher's skin. 

  
"Geralt... are you feeling okay?" Dandelion eventually spoke up, slowing down until Roach was walking beside their own horse. Geralt nodded a little, not wanting to cause any more fuss than he already had... he just wanted to reach some safe destination so that he could rest again, but judging by the remoteness of their current location, it wouldn't happen any time soon. 

  
"Okay, if you're sure... but, go in front of us, so we can keep an eye on you, okay?" Dandelion asked, hopeful the Witcher would agree. He didn't have the energy to argue, so he nodded, and he let Roach plod off in front of Dandelion's horse.   
They hadn't gone more than quarter of a mile down the track when Dandelion's concern grew. Geralt seemed to have slouched forwards even more in the saddle, his usually straight posture was weak and almost helpless. His left hand still grasped the saddle, and his body rocked from side to side with each of Roach's steps. Geralts breakfast still sat undigested and heavy in his stomach, his body seeming to refuse it, and he could feel it sloshing back and forth as he rocked. He didn't usually get sea sick or motion sick, but then again, he wasn't usually this injured or weak. 

  
Dandelion glanced around them, taking in the views, then looked back at Geralt just in time to see him lean to one side in the saddle and vomit off Roach's back, onto the ground below. Roach's ears turned backwards, and the horse stopped, hooves stamping the ground in concern at the noise. Dandelion's eyes widened, and he quickly rode alongside Geralt, stopping as well, but leaving enough room so he or his horse didn't get caught by Geralt throwing up. He could see Geralt losing his balance in the saddle as he spewed, gradually leaning further and further over, and Dandelion reached out, placing a hand on Geralt's arm to stop him falling off the way he was leaning. Zoltan, in concern, jumped down off their horse's back and moved around to untie Geralt from the saddle. 

  
Geralt's stomach convulsed, and he heaved, throwing up the last bit of his breakfast before simply dry heaving. He'd turned a sickly shade of greyish-green, and Dandelion climbed out of the saddle. He helped Geralt get down from Roach's back, a feat in itself, then with Geralt's good arm around his shoulders, carried him over to the shade of an old oak just off the track. Zoltan gathered the horses' reins and followed, tying them to a fallen branch. 

  
Geralt was slowly lowered to the ground, his back against the tree, and Dandelion rummaged in the saddle bags, returning with a bottle of water. He popped the cork, and with a hand on Geralt's shoulder, helped the Witcher to wash his mouth out, before he sipped some water. His stomach still churned, and for a moment Dandelion placed a hand on his stomach, wondering if there was something he could do to help his friend. His eyes scanned the Witcher's face, who had now leaned his head back against the tree, his eyes closed and his lips parted as he caught his breath. Dandelion had never seen him like this before.

  
"It's noon... we should rest for a short while, give the horses a break..." Zoltan spoke up, figuring that a rest would do them all some good, not to mention Geralt. Zoltan carried a saddle bag over, and he set it down. He untied a bed roll from it, and he laid it out. The pair helped Geralt onto it, and with a rolled up cloak as a pillow, he shifted onto his side with a stifled groan, his back to his friends. He closed his eyes, still feeling like he was rocking, and did his best to ignore the world around him and his rolling stomach. Eating rotten food for a week had really done a number on his digestive system... at least he hadn't shit himself again though, that was a good start... 

  
Zoltan and Dandelion had some lunch and a rest whilst Geralt slept for a while, and an hour later they knew they had to move on. Loading back up, Dandelion was reluctant to put Geralt on Roach alone, seeing him almost topple off before. He helped Geralt back onto Roach, leaving Zoltan in charge of his own horse. Dandelion then climbed into the saddle in front of Geralt, and much to the Witcher's disgust, he tied the rope around both of their waists so Geralt's front was against Dandelion's back. At least that should hold him upright, the rather weak and delirious Witcher certainly didn't need to fall off his horse... Geralt lowered his head, eyes closing, and they set off on their journey once more.


	4. A Brief Respite?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travelling, especially in the unpredictanle, bandit ridden lands of Velen, is exhausting at the least. In Geralt's state, his rescuers can only just imagine the pain he must be enduring... The friends are growing weary, and with Geralt's condition changing by the hour, they know they need to find somewhere safe to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying the fic so far! I'm having fun writing it. If you have any comments or suggestions, please do leave them below! I'd love to hear any constructive criticism.

By the time dark was creeping in, Geralt had fallen asleep, slumped forwards with his head resting on Dandelion's back. His breathing was soft and steady, and Dandelion found comfort in the fact that he could hear Geralt breathing beside his ear. It was bizarre, seeing Geralt so weak that he wasn't trying to shrug his friends off or turn down their help. Usually, he was so stubborn, he would refuse to show any weakness. It was nice, though, to be trusted enough by someone as cynical as Geralt. Unfortunately, though, Geralt's friends were also growing tired, and they'd need to find somewhere to rest for the night. 

  
Dandelion pulled his map out from his pocket, and he found their location thanks to the landmarks around them. He sighed to find that the nearest village would be another few hours ride away. In the dark, with the Witcher unable to defend himself, in an area that was known for its bandits and thugs, it wasn't such a good idea to keep going. Much to Dandelion's dismay, it looked like they were camping the night... He slipped his map away, and looked out through the darkening scenery. There was a barn across some fields, not too far from them. He wondered whether that would be a suitable place...

  
"Zoltan, let's get to that barn... maybe we can stop the night there." Dandelion spoke quietly so he wouldn't disturb the Witcher who was fast asleep against his back. Zoltan glanced over at the building, then shrugged. Anything was better than being out in the open, right? Especially with the weather looking like it was about to turn, and there being a rather dangerous search party out for Geralt. If the barn was owned, maybe they could ask permission to shelter the night.

  
"Aye, let's go take a look..." He replied, then kicking Dandelion's horse into a trot, he went ahead, turning off the main track and down the path that crossed the fields. Dandelion followed behind, keeping Roach at a walk. The horse's head was low, on a long rein; she was clearly tired from carrying both Geralt's weight, and Dandelion's. Poor thing deserved a rest, if anything. 

  
By the time they walked up to the barn, Zoltan had managed to get the door open and checked the place out. It was empty, no animals or people around, but inside there was a grain store, and a wing stacked to the ceiling with hay bales... Zoltan knew hay was an insulating material, and would also feed the horses. There were holes in the roof, and some in the walls... it wouldn't be wind proof, and there were areas where the rain would come in, but off to one side where the hay bales were stacked high, it looked dry. He was already shifting some, opening out an area in which they could set up camp. He built the bales he shifted up into a wall between them and the door, so if anybody looked in, it wouldn't be immediately obvious that there was anybody in there, and it would help keep the heat in and the wind out. In the back there were a few stalls, usually intended for cattle, but they would do for the horses for the night. 

  
Dandelion spurred Roach on, in through the barn doors, then slowed her down to a stop. The horse shook her head, dust erupting from her mane in a cloud. This rain was needed, that was for sure... He gently tapped Geralt's thigh, and the Witcher grunted and stirred, blinking tired eyes open. 

  
"Hmm..." He lifted his head, just now realising he had fallen asleep on his friend's back, and he felt a little embarrassed about it. He yawned though and glanced around them. Zoltan was clearing the barn floor of straw where they would spend the night, and had gathered some stones, building a circle to use as a fire pit. He found some dried wood from within the barn and began to attempt to start a fire. 

  
"C'mon, let's get you down..." Dandelion said softly as he unfastened the rope that had been tying them together. He carefully moved, making sure Geralt wasn't going to topple off, then slid down off the saddle. He reached his arms up and helped Geralt swing his injured leg over Roach's rump so he was now sitting sideways on the saddle, then carefully he slid off, Dandelion doing his best to take the Witcher's weight when he landed. Geralt winced as he did so, crying out as the impact shook through his body. He seemed to have got worse as the day went on, weaker, more tired... he needed to rest, travelling was draining him. Maybe they could borrow a cart off someone in the nearest village so he wouldn't have to balance on Roach's back... 

  
Geralt had almost doubled over, and Dandelion was supporting him as best he could. He looked down at the Witcher, white hair falling forwards to cover his face, and reaching out a hand, he brushed the hair behind Geralt's ears. He lifted the witcher's arm around his neck, and he helped Geralt to straighten up a little. 

  
"Come, let's get you sat down..." He encouraged, before helping the weaker man to the hay area Zoltan had set up. He carefully lowered Geralt down onto a bale of hay near the fire Zoltan was currently swearing at, unable to get it to start. Geralt leaned forwards where he sat, wrapping his good arm around his stomach. He felt sick still, but he also knew there was nothing left to throw up... fighting the feeling wasn't helping either though. Dandelion wandered off again, putting the horses in the stalls, removing their saddles and bridles. He carried the saddle bags over to the others and set them down, then went to get some buckets to fill with water for the horses.

  
"Stupid wood... bastard thing... start you-" Zoltan grumbled under his breath, trying to get the fire lit, but it just wouldn't catch. This amused Geralt slightly, but he was in no mood to make fun of his short friend. He could feel the increasing winds coming through the gaps in the barn walls, and it bit at his skin. He shivered a little, and needed warnth... as much as he knew it would drain his energy a bit, a simple motion of his hand, casting Igni, and the fire pit burst into flames. Zoltan frowned a little, clearly not amused that he couldn't get the fire to start on his own. 

  
"Thanks, Geralt..." The dwarf sighed, then got to his feet, adding more fuel until the fire was burning nicely. He glanced over to his Witcher friend, who was sat with his legs spread apart, and he was leaning forwards, head practically between his knees. Geralt's body was trembling, and he seemed to jolt occasionally, fighting back the retches that kept rising in his throat. He didn't want to be sick again, it hurt... it hurt his ribs, his back, his wounds, his abs, his shoulders... and the bile burnt his throat.

  
"Geralt... don't fight it. Let it out if you have to. No shame here." Zoltan spoke kindly, moving to grab a bucket. He placed it between his friend's feet, then sat on the hay bale beside him. He placed a comforting hand on the Witcher's back, who instinctively pulled away. He wasn't used to such a kind touch... he wasn't used to being looked after. He didn't like it. Usually when sick or injured, he was alone in his misery, hiding away in some cave or the bushes until it passed. He hated showing weakness in front of others; it wasn't who he was, who he had been created to be. He was a Witcher; they were meant to be emotionless, strong, unbreakable...

  
Geralt was still for a moment longer, staring into the empty bucket, before shaking his head and forcing himself to sit upright. He looked greyish-green, which completely gave away the lie in his reply, "'m fine..." The Witcher could hear Dandelion singing to the horses, and he found a little comfort in it... honestly, he'd missed these two. Zoltan studied his friend closely, not convinced by Geralt's response, but he knew that arguing with the Witcher would be pointless. Instead, he rose to his feet and went to get the bags, unpacking them and laying out their bed rolls. He got some food that they'd packed for the journey, and sat down on his own bed roll, quickly wolfing his food down. He was famished. Geralt watched, knowing he should be eating, but the sight of the food, doubled with the scent his sensitive nose had picked up made him feel even more sick. He inhaled a shaking breath, only for his stomach to do a flip, and his body lurched forwards. 

  
As if the confusion the nausea had brought on had caused him to forget his pain, he got to his feet, a hand reaching out to the wall for support as he tried to get outside to hurl instead of doing so in front of his eating friend, but he couldn't. He cried out in pain as he put weight on his broken knee, and his leg gave way. He slumped to the ground with a moan that caused Zoltan's own stomach to turn in sympathy. Zoltan dropped his food, grabbed the bucket and scrambled over, getting to his knees next to his friend. He thrust the bucket under Geralt's face just in time for him to lean forward and vomit violently. He grasped his ribs with this good arm, and Zoltan held Geralt's long hair back out of the way. 

  
Dandelion had heard the commotion from where he was spreading hay out in the stalls for the horses. He dropped the hay and closed the stall doors, running over to find Geralt heaving unproductively now into the bucket. He hadn't anything to throw up, but his body seemed adamant that it had to rid him of whatever was in his stomach... damn food poisoning... 

  
Glancing from Zoltan to Geralt, Dandelion came over and knelt down next to him. He rubbed his back, cringing a little at the sight, smell, and sound as Geralt retched once more, nothing coming up. It hurt... it felt like he'd pulled the muscles of his abs trying to rid his body of whatever was disagreeing with it. Geralt paused, spitting as stringy bile hung from his goatee, and he closed his eyes, inhaling a trembling breath.

  
"It's okay..." Dandelion says softly, and oddly, Geralt found comfort in those words. For once, when he was ill, he didn't have to suffer through it alone. "It's better to just let it out, okay?" Dandelion reminded Geralt and the only response the bard got was yet another unproductive heave from Geralt's stomach. Nothing came up this time, just the painful sound of gagging, and Dandelion ached with sympathy. He looked up at Zoltan who was equally as concerned, and asked him to pass a damp cloth and some water. 

  
When Geralt thought he was done, he spat to clear his mouth, and he tried to catch his breath. He felt a cool, wet cloth wipe over his mouth, nose, and chin, and his head lifted a little to look up at Dandelion with weary eyes. There was a darkness around his eyes, more so than normal, and the bard knew he needed to rest. Geralt's expression was thankful though, despite the fact that he said nothing, and much to Dandelion's surprise, he leaned to one side until his body slumped against his friends. Dandelion placed his arms around Geralt, who was shivering, and Zoltan took the bucket away to wash it out. 

  
"C'mon, let's get you to bed." Dandelion sighed, and he grabbed Geralt's waist, heaving him to his feet. Geralt stumbled, nearly losing his footing, but Dandelion caught him. He pulled Geralt's good arm over his shoulders, but Geralt bent double and gagged again. Of course, nothing came out. Dandelion gently encouraged Geralt to move to the bed roll closest to the fire, and he set his friend down, covering him with the blankets they'd brought. He lifted Geralt's head, and helped him to take a sip of water, then allowed the Witcher to roll onto his side, his back to the room. He made sure Geralt was warm enough, then sat down by the fire on a bale, watching him. He knew Geralt needed to eat and drink, at least a little something... he felt like he was starting to watch his friend wither away. 

  
Zoltan returned, and the two planned the next day whilst Geralt slept. They had another day of travel, at least, to get back to Novigrad, unless they could borrow a cart and trot the horses back. If they could just get Geralt to the next village, they might be able to find someone willing to help. 

  
Eventually, the two retired to their bed rolls, and all three slept silently. Outside, the wind had picked up, and the rain was coming down now. It came into the barn through the holes in the roof, causing the soft patter of drops to sound through the barn where it puddled up on the hard dirt ground. The fire kept going until well into the night, when it finally burnt down to cinders. 

  
The next day, a loud growl from his stomach brought Geralt to. He shuffled in his sleep and rolled onto his back, falling still again. The scent of meat cooking wafted into his nostrils, and his mouth was watering... for the first time in days now, he actually felt famished. He was still tired though, and he wanted to fall back to sleep again. His stomach had other ideas though, and another empty rumble sounded, causing him to place his good hand on his stomach. He blinked his eyes open; they were blurry at first, but a hard blink cleared his vision and he stared up at the rafters in the barn. That smell was so incredible though, and he slowly moved, propping himself up on his good elbow to see Zoltan spit-roasting a few plucked pheasants over the fire. It looked and smelled incredible.Dandelion was with the horses, and he could be heard singing away as he groomed Roach with a brush he'd found laying in a chest in the barn. Roach seemed to love it, and she dozed softly, one rear hoof just lifted off the ground, and her head hung low, ears and bottom lip drooping. With the amount of matted hair coming from her, it seemed as though Geralt didn't brush her often enough. 

  
Zoltan caught sight of movement in the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see Geralt pushing himself upright. He groaned, but he seemed much better than he had been the night before. It seemed even more so when he managed to get to his feet on his own. His knee must have started healing during his night's sleep, thanks to his mutations allowing for faster healing, but he still couldn't really weightbare with it much. He moved carefully to the hay bale next to the fire, a very bad limp causing him to wince with every step, but it was progress. He lowered himself onto the bale, like an elderly man would lower himself into a seat, and got comfortable. 

  
"Morning, Geralt." Zoltan spoke as he passed a canteen of water to Geralt, who took it thankfully. He sipped it slowly at first, but feeling the cold water trickle down his throat was bliss, and it soothed the pain in his throat and stomach as well from the vomiting. He realised as he sipped, however, just how thirsty he really was, and he began to gulp water down, parched. He was dehydrated, that much was clear when he pissed, and it seemed perhaps his body was recovering enough to start demanding he make up for lost nutrients and fluids. 

  
"Steady on, don't go making yourself sick again..." Zoltan frowned, concerned for his friend, but he was honestly so relieved to see his friend drinking once more. Geralt lowered the canteen, which was mostly empty now, and he let out a relieved sigh. Not only had he quenched his thirst, but it eased the pain in his throat for now, and his stomach had stopped rumbling due to the water. Often, Geralt got by on drinking water alone... sometimes food was hard to come by, but a good drink was enough to quieten the rumbles of an empty stomach. Geralt set the canteen down and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees.

  
"Morning, Zoltan..." He finally replied, a little more strength in his voice than had been there before. "Been hunting?" Geralt signalled to the pheasants with his good hand. Zoltan nodded in response. "Aye, nearly got a wild boar but some bandits spooked it, the bastards..." Zoltan sounded frustrated, but honestly, Geralt felt like he could eat a rotfiend right now. The smell was inticing, and it wasn't long until Dandelion appeared too. 

  
"Geralt, good to see you up." The bard smiled and sat down next to his friend. He needed to check Geralt's wounds, and so whilst they waited for the food to cook, Dandelion stripped his friend's top off, and removed the bandages. They looked to be healing well, aside from a couple where the worst of the burns had been. They were a little infected still, and needed dressed again. Dandelion covered them in a special poultice he'd got from a herbalist in the last village they'd stopped over in, then dressed them again, leaving the rest open to the air to breathe. 

  
Geralt's arm removed from the sling, it was clear his shoulder still hurt... but of course it would, it'd been dislocated after all. His wrist, however, was their main concern. It was twisted, his fingers locked in one position, and he couldn't move it. It was healing in the wrong position... and he needed to get it seen if he wanted to be able to hold a blade again. 

  
Dandelion was just putting Geralt's shirt back on, when the Witcher's stomach let out an almighty growl, unlike anything Dandelion had heard it produce before, and shocked the bard looked up at Geralt, who chuckled a little at Dandelion's expression. 

  
"Sorry... guess I'm hungry." Geralt shrugged, and Dandelion smiled a little in response... that sounded promising.

  
"Glad to hear it." The bard said genuinely, but he was also anxious about how Geralt's body would react. If Geralt was sure he wanted to eat, though, then Dandelion saw no reason to argue. He put the Witcher's arm back in the sling, just as Zoltan took the pheasants off the fire. He skewered each one individually, then passed one to Dandelion and one to Geralt.

  
The Witcher instantly began tearing into it with his teeth, biting a huge chunk out of the breast. His friends had never seen him so hungry, he was eating like a ravenous beast, hardly chewing before he swallowed. He pulled the legs off, and he practically sucked the meat off the bones, moved to the wings and did the same thing, then finished off the body of the pheasant. With nothing left but a scraps and bones, Geralt set the waste down and grabbed some bread to follow, then chased it down with some more water. Stuffed, he leaned back against the bale of straw behind him, letting out a sigh, and he placed a hand on his belly feeling content warmth radiate through him. He relaxed, and sat quietly whilst the other two finished their own meals off, hand idly rubbing his belly to ease the ache developing as his stomach started to digest. He hadn't eaten a substantial meal in over a week, and it seemed that his stomach wasn't used to having something to work on.

  
When Dandelion finished, he tacked up their horses, and they started to pack. Geralt tried to help, but was shooed away to avoid himself hurting himself more. Instead, the Witcher sat there feeling useless, and watching as his friends fussed around him. It was still raining. Geralt was not looking forward to their journey, but knew that they had to move on.

The steady padding of the horses hooves on the dirt track was a comforting sound to Geralt. He was so used to travelling that the noise was sometimes enough to lull him into a light sleep on Roach's back. Not this time though. With his injured knee, his balance was thrown off, so most of his energy was focused on that. His faithful horse, Roach, seemed to know that Geralt wasn't well, and so she was being careful of her steps, making sure to walk steadily, but at a good pace and on even ground. Geralt kept her on a long rein, and she plodded along, following Dandelion's horse. The rain had been coming down in showers, but thankfully Dandelion always carried a cloak in his bags on the road, and he'd donated it to the Witcher, who had it pulled tight around himself, grasping the front to hold it closed, with the hood up in some attempt to keep his weakened body dry and warm.

  
It was a few hours before the rain cleared up, and the sun began to peak out from the clouds now and then. They stopped to warm up for a short while and have a quick snack of bread and fruit, before continuing once more.  
Ahead of the white haired man, Dandelion was sat backwards in the saddle, with Zoltan taking the reins for a change. Dandelion had his lute, and was playing through his entire repertoire of songs. Zoltan hummed along, seeming to enjoy the music for a change, but Geralt had spent so much time on the road with the bard that he was honestly tired of hearing the same ballads over and over again... most of them were about him, after all, and sometimes hearing songs about his past was a drain on what little he had in the way of emotions. 

  
They'd been on the road for half the day by now and as time had passed, Geralt was feeling more and more unwell. His stomach churned like the waves of Skellige in a storm and he shivered, a cold sweat rising in his body. He could feel the beads of sweat prickle his skin, but he pulled the cloak even tighter around him, despite the sun being quite pleasant on their backs when it came out from behind the clouds. With the hood up, his face half covered, it was hard for Dandelion to see his face, and when the bard looked up from his lute, he frowned at the way Geralt had bundled himself up and was now leaning forwards onto Roach's neck, his head buried in his horse's mane and his arm wrapped around his horse's neck for stability.

  
"Geralt...? Are you okay?" The bard asked in concern, and Zoltan turned to look over his shoulder. Concern rose in his face when he saw how Geralt's usually pale skin had turned almost green, and Geralts shoulders seemed to tense up, almost shugging occasionally, his lips pressed into a firm line. Geralt didn't reply... he was too busy holding his stomach contents down where they belonged. Zoltan slowed the horse down, and as he did so, Roach slowed too. Geralt closed his eyes, hearing a thud as Dandelion jumped down from the saddle. He took Roach's reins and stopped her, seeing Geralt press his eyes shut, his arm clutching at his belly. 

  
"C'mon, let's get you down from there..." Dandelion said as he reached his arms up, and he knew Geralt wasn't feeling right from how the Witcher basically leaned his weight into the bard's hands, He managed to swing his leg over the saddle. He half slid, half fell off his horse, and as his feet hit the ground, his body tensed. His stomach lurched and he folded double, grasping his middle as he vomited violently onto the ground just in front of Dandelion's shoes. The bard yelped and jumped back just in time to miss the stream of sick, and he moved, placing an arm around Geralt's waist. His hand pressed to the Witcher's stomach to hold him up, feeling the muscles tense and spasm as his body purged itself of half digested pheasant, bread and fruit. Dandelion turned his head away and looked at Zoltan, trying to block out the sound and smell as he tried to stop himself from throwing up as well.

  
Seeing the state Geralt was in, Zoltan moved the horses off the road, tying them up to a fallen branch by a tree. He removed the saddle bags, figuring they wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Dandelion closed his eyes, feeling another wave of sickness shake Geralt's body as he supported the Witcher's weight.

  
The Witcher reached out his good hand, and he grasped onto Dandelion's tunic, feeling his knees about to give way. Dandelion shifted him away from the puddle at their feet, and he adjusted his grip on Geralt, putting his arm around his shoulders to help him walk. Slowly, he helped Geralt limp off the main track, and he sat him down on a boulder. Geralt moaned, and more bile rose in his throat. He leaned forwards and vomited again, between his feet. 

  
Dandelion stayed with him until Geralt was done, nothing left to throw up. The white haired man shook, and he leaned to one side, his eyelids drooping as he struggled to stay conscious. He felt weak, drained, everything hurt, and he was so relieved that Dandelion had sat beside him, or he'd have toppled off the boulder. His abs and ribs ached with each breath, and Dandelion sighed, knowing they would need to stop for the night... well that put a halt on their progress... not good when Geralt appeared to be getting weaker again.

  
It felt like forever before Geralt seemed to think he had done trying to throw up, by which time he was exhausted. Zoltan had laid out the bed rolls, and headed off to gather firewood so they could set up camp. Dandelion heaved the large man to his feet, and half carried him to his bed roll. He assisted the Witcher, removing the wet cape, removing his boots, then offered Geralt a sip of water to clear his mouth. He took it cautiously, then laid down, wrapping his arms around his middle and curling into a ball around his stomach. Dandelion sat down on the floor beside Geralt and gently stroked up and down the Witcher's arm, trying to provide some comfort. It seemed his body was still trying to rid itself of the poisoning it had received from eating rotting food, drinking stagnant water, and the damage all the throwing up had done to his stomach lining. 

  
Zoltan eventually returned with firewood and he got a campfire going. Geralt was meditating as best he could to try and distract himself from the pain, but his body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn't there, resulting in painful dry heaving now and then that just didn't seem to want to let up. Dandelion and Zoltan managed to keep themselves occupied, and eventually the trio fell asleep, the night creeping in around them. For Geralt, the night started out restless, waking occasionally for his body to attempt to purge his stomach, though there was nothing to throw up. It was exhausting though, and finally, Geralt managed to slip into a deep sleep, the only signs he was even alive were the rising and falling of his chest, and the occasional gurgle coming from his upset belly. 

  
The night rolled on, and Geralt finally managed to get a decent few hours sleep, so exhausted that the discomfort he was in had almost been forgotten about. The rainclouds had cleared out, the skies spotted with stars, but it had left a chill in the air. Geralt had pulled the sheets from his bed roll up over his head, the fire gradually dying down leaving the cold night air to nip at his skin. The friends were snoring softly when Geralt's sensitive hearing picked up on something which drew him from his slumber. He listened hard, eyes remaining closed as he tried to work out what he was hearing through his exhausted haze, or if he was even really hearing anything at all. It sounded bizarre, like a dozen feet pattering on the ground. There was a sort of scraping, clattering noise, like the sound of shells tapping together, then it dawned on him... that pattering sound was growing closer.


	5. Fear of the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Geralt, can you hear me?" The voice sounded, female... Geralt's eyes closed briefly, and he opened them again, blinking through the blur... he could make out a figure... pale skin, and... was that... ashen hair? He tried to focus, his head spinning, and finally his eyes focused enough to see the person leaning over him. 
> 
> "Ci... ri?" He slurred weakly, squinting in confusion. No, that couldn't be possible, Ciri was on the run from the Wild Hunt...

His eyes shot open, golden irises glowing as his pupils dilated, adjusting to the darkness. Emerging from the undergrowth a stones throw from his bed roll, an Endrega Worker appeared... slowly, Geralt managed to push himself up from the ground where he lay, and he silently pulled Dandelion's sword out of its scabbard with his left hand. His movements were careful, slow, so not to draw attention to the group or make a sound that might give his movements away. He stifled a groan as he moved, biting down on his tongue to stop himself from making a sound.

Geralt wasn't left handed... he'd tried to teach himself to fight left handed, but he'd never been able to master it. He was right handed, through and through, and so having his dominant hand in a sling would make this even more difficult but out of the three of them, he was the only one with the knowledge and skill to take the beast down with ease... usually, an endrega would be to challenge for Geraly, but he was injured, not to mention his shattered knee cap that maked weight baring painful. His instincts were kicking in though, the adrenalin starting to surge through his veins which helped to dull the pain a little. 

He carefully got to his feet, leaning on the tree they were sheltering under and watched in dismay as one Endrega Worker became two... then three... their hard, armoured shells made a quiet clicking sound as they moved. Geralt gently tapped Dandelion's back with the very end of the sword to wake him. It was to cause the bard to stir, but as Dandelion woke, he made a confused muttering sound that caused one of the Endrega Workers to turn and face them. 

Suddenly, the Endrega Worker moved, clearing the gap between itself and Geralt in a flash, pincers poised to attack. Geralt cried out, partly through pain, partly a battle cry, as he launched himself towards the Endrega, sword swinging at it's flank. The Endrega managed to dodge the attack by jumping back, spitting acid in Geralt's direction, who jumped aside and out of it's reach. The sudden commotion had caused Dandelion to scramble to his feet, finding his sword was missing and Geralt was the one who had it. He took the scabbard in hand, ready to smack anything that came near him. The three workers began to circle them, and Zoltan, the last to wake, did so in a start in response to the noise. He jumped up, grabbing his axe, and he launched himself at the worker closest to him. 

A clash of steel against shell, for he was caught without a silver sword, Geralt managed to parry an attack from one beast. Limping, he side stepped past the its pincers to its flank, which was now exposed, and he took a swing. He aimed to slice it's leg, but he missed, the sword slashing down the side of the Endrega instead. At least he'd hit it though. The creature let out a piercing screech, and it turned, swiping at Geralt with a pincer again. The Witcher was slow, but he managed to dodge once more, another swing of the sword slicing one of the Endrega's legs off this time. The creature cried out again in pain, toxic blood spurting from the wound, and it gave Geralt enough time to get behind the Endrega and thrust the sword straight into the beasts back. The Endrega cried out once more, writhing as Geralt pulled the blade back out, then stabbed it again, this time through the back of the head. The large, insect-like creature staggered and fell, hitting the ground hard and falling still. 

Across the way, Zoltan was parrying blows from the second Endrega, whilst the third had backed Dandelion against the tree. The bard repeatedly smacked the beast on the head with the scabbard, shouting profanities at it that Geralt didn't even know the bard had in his vocabulary, He cried out for help, and Geralt half ran, half limped over. He swung at the Endrega from behind, but it seemed the beast had heard him approach due to his injury rendering his usually silent walking style impossible. It spun around, and a sudden spray of acid came Geralt's way. The Witcher jumped aside, getting merely a few droplets on arm which hissed as they burnt into his skin. He let out a gutteral growl as the acid burnt his skin, but he'd live, it was only a tiny amount. It'd burn for a while, but he'd be able to neutralise it once he'd finished the beasts off.

Another advance from the insectoid followed, a swing towards the Witcher with blade-like pincers, he jumped out of the way of them, however, he landed at a bad angle on his injured knee, and it buckled from beneath him. The White Wolf crumpled onto the ground, hitting his shattered kneecap off the rocky terrain. The sword flew from his grip as he instinctively grasped at his knee, crying out in pain, but this left him open to attack and vulnerable.

There was nothing the trio could do but watch as the Endrega darted forwards rapidly. It lashed out, a single swing of it's pincer caught Geralt's side as he tried to reach for the sword. The Witcher let out a loud scream as the sharp bone-like material sliced through his flesh, the toxic slime that coated the Endrega's pincers instantly sending a hot burning sensation through his side and torso. The pain in his knee was suddenly forgotten, erased by this new injury, but he knew he had to defend himself. He tried to reach from where he was laying, left hand stretching towards the sword, but as he did so the Endrega's venomous fangs sunk into his already injured leg, biting down on his muscular thigh. He cried out in agony, his hand desperately reaching for the sword, but it was out of his reach. The Endrega pulled sharply, like a rabid dog tearing at it's prey, causing Geralt to scream as he was dragged a across the floor, feeling his flesh tearing. Trying to get the Endrega to back away, he kicked with his other leg, but it wouldn't let go. Lifting a hand, there was sudden flash of white-blue light, and the Witcher blasted the Endrega away using Aard. This was enough time for Dandelion to rush forwards, grab the sword, and land a well aimed blow into the Endrega's back, slicing it's head off. It fell, landing with a thud, poisonous blood pouring from it's neck as its head rolled to a stop.

Zoltan was still fighting the last of them, but Geralt couldn't move to help. The Witcher's eyes had practically rolled back into his head as he felt the burning of the toxins pulsing through his veins. His teeth clenched so hard it was amazing they didn't break, and his muscles seemed to spasm in response. The wounds felt like they were on fire, lava coursing through his veins, and his hand grasped at the bite on his thigh as if it would help at all. He ripped at his trousers, which were already shredded, soaked with blood, and the shirt he wore was now stained deep crimson from his side. He was bleeding heavily, but to make matters worse, Endregas were poisonous creatures. Their bites released toxins into their victim, and their pincers and hard outer shells were covered in the same substance. He screamed out, agony tearing through his body as the toxic liquid spread, darkness creeping through his veins with each heartbeat, causing a labyrinth of lines to crawl across his skin, originating from the wounds.

"Geralt!!" Dandelion cried out as he dropped his sword and scrambled to his friend's side. Shaking like a leaf, he grasped Geralt's leg, just above the wound, trying to get the Witcher to stay still, but it was a waste of time. Geralt was a mutant, inhumanly strong, and he managed to throw Dandelion off, his back arching off the ground as he screamed. Zoltan heard the commotion, and he took a moment to glance their way, but was unable to help as he was still fighting off the final Endrega worker. 

"Shit, Geralt, stay with me." Dandelion begged as he grabbed the cloak he'd let Geralt borrow, and he sliced it with his sword. He pulled it into strips, the fabric tearing easily once cut. He tried to tie some of the strips around Geralt's leg, but he wouldn't hold still. 

"Geralt, stop moving!" He ordered the Witcher, but agony seared through his body like someone had pumped acid into his veins. His eyes were pressed tight shut, his hand now grasping at the wound on his side. His back arched off the floor again, and he let out a primal, growling cry as the pain spread further and further through his body. Tears rolled down his face, but not from emotion, from the agony that gripped him. Dandelion tried to pin Geralt's leg down but the man was too strong, and a sudden movement of his leg caused his good knee to smack into Dandelion's face. Dandelion cried out and fell back, hands grasping his nose. He winced, feeling blood run from his nostril, but it wasn't broken, he knew that much. He also knew Geralt hadn't meant it... in fact, it seemed like the Witcher was in so much pain he couldn't control his limbs. He quickly scrambled back over, managing to grab Geralt's leg, but this time, he clambered over his friend's body, straddling his pelvis to stop him moving as much. If Geralt had been compos mentis, he'd have made some sarcastic, dirty comment about the position they were in, but instead, his fists balled up, knuckles turning white. Golden, cat-like eyes pressed shut tightly, and he just couldn't stop crying out in pain.

Zoltan came running over, finally the third Endrega finished off, and he grabbed Geralt's ankles, pushing his weight down hard to stop the Witcher from moving his legs. Dandelion quickly tyed the strip cloth tightly around Geralt's thigh, just above the wound to act as a tourniquet, and he took another piece, tightly tying it around the wound itself to compress it. Zoltan pressed down on the wound as well to help stem the bleeding, whilst Dandelion turned to tend to the gash across Geralt's side. The Witcher tried to pull free, but the pain was too much, and his eyes rolled back, the whites of his eyes the only thing showing for a brief moment before the agony took him, and he slipped unconscious. The Witcher fell still, his body sprawled across the dirty ground, blood soaking the soil beneath him. His head fell to one side, and his limbs stopped writhing and splayed out around him. 

"Swallow! Or Golden Oriole!" Zoltan cried out suddenly when a wave of inspiration washed over him. He sprinted off to their bags, finding the potions Geralt had managed to brew last night. "Geralt always takes Golden Oriole before he fights a basilisk... said it's to counter the toxicity of the venom! Here, tip his head up." The dwarf told Dandelion, who lifted Geralt's head up. Zoltan opened the Witcher's mouth, and he slowly tipped the potion down Geralt's throat. The unconscious man coughed, spluttering as he was made to swallow the potion, before Zoltan followed it down with another, a bottle of Swallow. He tipped it down Geralt's throat, apologising out loud to the Witcher as he coughed again, his unconscious body trying to breathe and ending up inhaling liquid instead.

"We shouldn't have stopped for the night... we should have stayed awake, kept watch... He shouldn't have been fighting! He's going to die!" Dandelion was panicking now, laying Geralt back down. His hands were covered in the Witcher's blood, and he returned to applying pressure to Geralt's side to try slow the bleeding. Zoltan moved, placing his hands where Dandelion's were, taking over holding a piece of fabric to Geralt's side to apply pressure. 

"Get a grip and stop panicking, Dandelion! There's nothing we can do about it now. Get your horse, and ride to the nearest village! Get a cart, and try to find a healer!" Zoltan snapped, seeing he would have to take charge. He had to get Dandelion to calm down enough to think clearly. Dandelion, flustered, got to his feet. He quickly untied his horse, and he swung himself back into the saddle. A sharp kick into his horse's flank pushed it into a gallop, and he swiftly rode off out of sight. 

"Hang in there, Geralt..." Zoltan pleaded quietly, looking down at the Witcher through the darkness. Even in the dim light, he could see the telltale signs of toxins in Geralt's body, the dark veins spreading up his neck now, onto his cheeks. He'd seen it before, on their previous adventures together, when Geralt had taken one too many potions, and his body had started to react to the overdose. The darkness around his eyes had become more intense, his lips a blueish tint and his skin had turned even more pale than normal, with a faint purple tinge... he knew it had to be from the Endrega venom in his blood. The Golden Oriole didn't seem to be helping much, either, and that concerned Zoltan to no end... all he could do for now was try to stem the bleeding, and keep him at least somewhat stable and safe. 

Zoltan kept the pressure on the wound in Geralt's side. The makeshift tourniquet was helping on his leg at least, but it still bled, and eventually the bandaging needed changing. He stopped holding cloth to one wound, and he moved to tend to the bite. He unwrapped it, and carefully he peeled the fabric off the bite wound, black pus weeping from it, mixed with blood. The black pus was the poison his body was tring to push out, but it wasn't enough. He bandaged it again, and moved back to the wound on Geralt's side. 

Geralt woke a few times whilst Dandelion was gone, crying out in pain, pleading for help, pleading for death. Sweat poured down his body, a fever spiking as his body tried to fight at the poison within, but it did nothing but make him delirious. He writhed in pain, and Zoltan did everything he could to stop the Witcher from doing more harm than he'd already endured, until his consciousness faded once more. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Geralt had lost a lot of blood. He was barely conscious, pale, and the ruckus of the wooden cart wheels, and the galloping of hooves caused him to open his eyes only slightly in confusion. He heard a voice, his eyes unable to focus, and he felt soft hands press to his cheeks, tipping head to look towards the owner... a blurry shape was all Geralt could make out through his barely open eyelids. Something pulled at his eyelids next, opening his eyes more, trying to see how his pupils reacted, but they were dilated, and he didn't seem to respond at all. His eyes didn't focus one bit, and his vision just darted around, trying to process what was happening through the pain that rendered him paralysed.

"Geralt, can you hear me?" The voice sounded, female... Geralt's eyes closed briefly, and he opened them again, blinking through the blur... he could make out a figure... pale skin, and... was that... ashen hair? He tried to focus, his head spinning, and finally his eyes focused enough to see the person leaning over him. 

"Ci... ri?" He slurred weakly, squinting in confusion. No, that couldn't be possible, Ciri was on the run from the Wild Hunt... how could she be here? He gazed up at an ashen-haired women, green eyed, and a scar down her face... He tried to speak again, but his vision spun... there were two Ciri's now... then four, then one, and she was covered in blood, her face torn open like a noonwraith, long tongue hanging from beneath her skull. Geralt tried to cry out, his eyes wide, despite the darkness around them and their bloodshot appearance, and he looked like he'd seen a ghost. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"He's hallucinating..." The healer looked up at Dandelion then to Zoltan, frowning in concern as she spoke. She gently tapped his cheek with her palm to try draw him back into the present, but his eyes remained fixed on her, and he lifted a shaking hand as if to try and touch her face, but his strength failed him. His eyes pressed shut as a wave of pain shuddered through his body, like moulten oil had just been poured over him. He screamed in pain, his entire body going into spasm. His back arched off the ground, the nails of his good hand digging into the dirt as he clung to the blood stained earth beneath him. 

The healer moved, letting go of his head to take a look at his body. She saw the bloodied shirt and knew that she had to act quickly. Tearing his shirt off, she gasped at the sight of his body. It was littered with scars, both old and new... his muscular form was glistening with sweat and blood and black slime soaked his side, running down to the floor. The wounds were dark with the black poison, and an angry redness burned at the flesh around them. A spider's web of dark purple veins spread out from the wounds. She'd never seen anything like it before, but the state his body was in before the recent events had shocked her the most... the poor man... he must have been through so much in his life...

She swallowed past the initial shock, feeling a little sick at the sight, then pulled her bag closer. She pulled out different herbs and quickly began stuffing them into her mouth, chewing them down into a paste. Taking a sip of water, she mixed them up, then leaning down, her lips pressed to Geralts. For a moment, it looked as though they were sharing a kiss, a moment of deep passion, but it was far from it. Dandelion was about to tear her away from his friend, wondering what she was doing, but Zoltan stopped him. 

Geralt was so far gone he'd have been unable to chew the herbs himself without choking, so she had no other choice. She let the herbal mixed flow from her mouth to his, and his body instinctively swallowed. Within a matter of minutes, the Witcher's breathing slowed, his agonised writhing and cries of pain stopped, and he fell still. His eyes closed, lips parting as his head rolled to one side, and he fell unconscious. 

"What did you do?" Dandelion chirped up, unable to stop pacing in frustration, anxiety, fear. He looked terrified... Triss was going to kill him if anything happened to her Witcher. 

"He isn't aware enough to chew... so I did it for him. Those herbs should help to slow his pulse down... it'll slow the speed at which the poison is being pumped through his body, and hopefully we can draw them out in time before they reach his organs and they start to fail." She admitted, rummaging to grab some more herbs from her back. She took a pestle and mortar out of her bag too, and ground up the herbs, then added some spirits and clays, until she was left with a horrible greyish green paste. She uncovered his wound, and thickly coated them in the paste, and with a little help she wrapped a bandage around his torso to hold the paste in place. 

Finally, she moved to his leg. The tourniquet had worked well, but the circulation in his leg was cut off, and left for too long, he could risk losing his leg... and what use would a one-legged Witcher be? She removed the bandages and tournequet and repeated the process, covering the wound in the paste, then wrapped it again, tightly enough that the wound would be compressed. 

"Hopefully that should help to draw some of the poison out until we get him back to my home. Help me get him on the cart" The healer said, getting to her feet. She called her horse, who walked over, cart in tow. She laid down a few animals skins to pad it out a bit, then together they moved Geralt's limp body, heaving it with difficulty onto the cart. Geralt was hard enough to move when he was conscious, let alone when he was a dead weight. With him finally on the cart, they padded around him with anything soft they could find; their bed rolls, clothes, rags... anything to stop him rolling around or being jostled too much. 

"Zoltan, you go with them. I'll gather our things and follow behind." Dandelion said as he began to grab their belongings and stuffing them into the bags with haste. Zoltan nodded, grabbing his axe, and he climbed into the cart next to Geralt. The Witcher was unconscious now, looking like he was merely sleeping, but the dealthy pale skin and dark veins were signs of a dangerous internal battle, his body fighting for its life. Zoltan gently rested a hand on Geralt's shoulder, able to feel his slow but steady pulse through his palm which comforted the dwarf to no ends. 

The healer climbed into the front of the cart, and soon, the cart rattled out of sight, the horse galloping off towards the village. Dandelion watched it disappear, shaking like a leaf and short of breath. He didn't know whether he wanted to cry or scream, but he did know he had to get a move on. He stuffed their things into the bags with no care to fold anything. He rolled up their beds then strapped everything back to the horses' saddles. He tied Roach's reins to his own horse's reins, then climbed into the saddle, and with a kick, his horse galloped off the way the cart had gone, Roach following at the side. 

When Dandelion reached the healer's hut, he was out of breath. The horses foamed at the mouth, and he knew they needed to rest. He quickly dismounted, tying them up by a water trough, before jogging to the door of the healers house. He paused, hearing Geralt's pained cries coming from within, and urgently swung the door open. Running in, he was met with Zoltan sitting on a chair by the fire. The dwarf was glaring at the flames, and he almost winced each time Geralt screamed in the next room... it seemed hearing his faithful old friend's agony was really starting to get to the dwarf, who was entirely unaware of Dandelion's arrival. Zoltan usually put on a hard face, a stiff upper lip that hid his emotions, but right now Dandelion had caught him when he was vulnerable. 

"What's happening?" Dandelion asked sharply, causing the dwarf to jump. Zoltan stood up, and he turned to face Dandelion in defense, but relaxed when he saw it was just the Bard standing in front of him. His tough exterior was now back in place. 

"She's trying to draw the poison from his wounds..." Zoltan explained, shaking his head a little. "She said there's nothing we can do but wait-" Another scream from the next room caused Zoltan to wince a little, pausing in his talking. He swallowed hard then inhaled deeply, speaking again. "Let's go to the inn... I can't sit here and listen to this..." 

Dandelion wanted to protest. He wanted to stay in case Geralt needed them, but he could see the pain in Zoltan's face, and deep down he also knew there really was nothing they could do. He glanced towards the door to the room Geralt had been taken to, hearing a hoarse whimper that he'd never heard Geralt make before, and it hit him like a punch to the gut. He nodded a little silent, then turned and walked back out again, Zoltan following close behind. 


	6. Blue on Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Geralt's condition seeming to worsen, they only have one option left. There's a long journey ahead...

It was a long night for all involved. Zoltan and Dandelion tried to keep themselves occupied in the inn, playing gwent, singing songs, drinkng... but they couldn't get their Witcher friend out of their minds. They couldn't eat, they couldn't relax, and eventually the innkeeper began to kick the customers out. Zoltan and Dandelion got up before being asked, and with little in the way of conversation, they trudged back through the village towards the healers hut. It was dark... some time after midnight, and together they removed the saddles and saddle bags from the horses so they could rest for the night. It was quiet, no more pained cries coming from within the wooden hut, and Dandelion couldn't help but feel sick when he wondered why. 

The friends stepped back into the hut to see the healer hanging some cloths and sheets by the fireplace to dry. She looked exhausted, filthy and covered in blood, with a woeful expression, and Dandelion felt his heart drop into his stomach at the sight. He froze, and Zoltan stepped past him, nudging him on. 

"How's he doing?" Zoltan spoke up, Dandelion lost for words for once, but thankful to have his dwarven friend at his side to speak for him when he couldn't. The healer turned to face them her dark brown hair was a mess, blood wiped across her face. She gave them a sympathetic smile. 

"He's alive... but barely. The poison has spread through his body. I removed as much as I can for now, and I've applied some salves that should hopefully keep drawing it out through his wounds. But unfortunately, I've had to give him some strong herbal medicines... he began to fit, and I had no choice but to sedate him. Tonight will be the most crucial... if he makes it through tonight, it'll be a miracle..." She explained, sounding exhausted. She'd been working all day, from the early hours when she'd been woken by the panicked bard, to gone midnight the next day. Over twenty-four hours she'd worked on Geralt... over twenty-four hours he'd been writhing in pain... and now he was fighting for his life.

"Zoltan, you said you'd given him some potions... if it weren't for those, he wouldn't have even survived this long. You should be proud." The healer added, smiling kindly at the dwarf. "Now... if you don't mind, I would like to get some rest. You're welcome to go see him, but beware, he's not in a good way... should you need me, just shout." 

Dandelion didn't speak, simply turned and bolted through the door into the healer's treatment room. Zoltan glanced after him, then apologised for his friend. He thanked her, and followed Dandelion, closing the door behind him.   
The bard froze, like he was made of stone. He stared at the single, wooden slatted bed the Witcher lay on. There was a few animal skins on it to make it more comfortable, but it still didn't look the most comfortable of beds. Even when on the brink of death, Geralt's large frame dwarfed the bed, making it look like it would have been fit for a child. He was laying on his back, his eyes closed and head on a pillow. His arms were down by his side, his broken hand had been rebandaged, but was yet to be tended to by the healer... she didn't want to have to re-break it now, in case his body couldn't handle the added trauma. He was in nothing but underwear, his torso, thigh and knee wrapped in bandages. 

Dandelion's brows drew together in worry, and slowly he approached his friend. He reached out to place a hand on Geralt's shoulder. He was still feverish, his skin damp with sweat, and she'd left him uncovered to hopefully allow his body to cool down. His entire body was covered with a network for dark purple veins, the darkness around his closed eyes made it look like he had two black eyes now instead of one. His slightly parted lips were pale, almost blueish against his pale skin. The only thing giving away any signs of life was his shallow, slow breathing, which slowly passed between his lips, his chest rising and falling. His pulse was thready, and even slower than normal. 

The bard sat down on a chair beside the bed his friend lay on, and he stared unseeingly at the Witcher. He'd never seen Geralt in such a mess before, and it came as a shock. He was so glad they'd found him... he was so glad that someone had spotted him being taken from his camp that night when the Witch Hunters found him, but he wished he could have protected his friend more... A hand squeezed Dandelion's shoulder, and he turned to see Zoltan stood behind him, the touch was one of reassurance. As much as Dandelion appreciated the gesture, it didn't calm him much.

The whole night, and the entirity of the next day, Geralt's friend's stayed by his side. Dandelion kept trying to bring his fever down with a cold wet cloth, whilst Zoltan ran thoughts though his head, trying to think of ways to help the Witcher. He could try and find Triss, but it would be hard, now she had left Novigrad with the other sorcerers, sorceresses and mages. Yen was unreachable, and Ciri... well, nobody knew where she was... he was beginning to think that perhaps their best, or only option, was to take Geralt to Kaer Morhen... Vesemir was there, as always... he'd know what to do. 

He'd explained the idea to Dandelion, and talked through why he didn't think they had another choice, and as much as the bard didn't want to agree, he knew Zoltan was right. If anybody was equipped to treat an injured, poisoned Witcher, it was the school themselves. Vesemir was like a father to Geralt, and so he would do anything he could to help. Yes, they had to get him to Kaer Morhen...but it was a whole four days ride away, at least... they wouldn't be able to even attempt it until Geralt was stable.

It was another day before Geralt stirred. Dandelion was asleep on a chair next to the bed, head leaned to one side in such a way that he would no doubt wake with a stiff neck. He hadn't left his friend's side, whereas Zoltan had helped the healer around the house. He'd made himself useful, doing some handiwork and repairs for her, gathering wood, herbs, ingredients... he'd cleaned too. Often, Geralt's bandages had needed changing, the thick salve she'd applied to his wounds replaced each time. The blackness of his blood mixed with poison kept seeping through the bandages, but it was clear that it had spread through his entire body now, but at least he'd survived that first night.

Geralt was silent at first, his eyes closed. His body felt like it was on fire, burning from the inside. His breathing was shallow, and it grew more laboured as the pain slowly faded back into existence. At least when he was unconscious, he couldn't feel the pain. His hand twitched, and slowly his fingers grasped at the animal fur beneath him, until his knuckles were white, and a whimper slipped from between his lips. The sound drew Dandelion from his slumber, and his eyes opened, hearing the whimper of pain escape the Witcher. He sounded so vulnerable, so weak, and Dandelion couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, or was it nausea? He'd never heard Geralt make a noise like that before... 

Dandelion got to his feet, and he leaned over the bed, carefully placing his hand on Geralt's forehead. He still had a temperature, but it had dropped somewhat, thankfully. As Dandelion's hand touched his forehead, Geralt flinched, and his face contorted in pain, even in his half conscious state. His eyes opened only slightly, but it was clear he wasn't seeing anything in front of him. 

"Talli?" Dandelion called out for the healer, his gaze fixed on Geralt in concern as the Witcher began to cough. Dandelion's brow furrowed when he heard the coughing go from dry to wet, and he had a horrible feeling Geralt was about to be sick again. He moved, grabbing Geralt's shoulder and his hip, and with difficulty, he rolled the weak man onto his side. He moved behind the Witcher, kneeling on the bed behind him to keep him securely in that position, and he adjusted Geralt's head so his neck was more extended and slightly over the edge of the bed. He'd had to deal with unconscious drunks before in his cabaret, and so he knew how to stop someone choking on their own vomit. 

"Talli?!" He called again, but still received no response, unaware that she was currently outside with Zoltan, doing some washing. Dandelion felt Geralt's body convulse, both in pain, but also as his stomach muscles contracted, and liquid bubbled up his throat. The bard had no idea how Geralt could throw anything up, as he hadn't eaten in two days now, but little did he know it wasn't stomach acid working it's way up the Witcher's throat. A wet cough turned into a heave, and the Witcher began to vomit, a thick, foul smelling black slime pouring from his throat. It splattered across the floor, and Dandelion managed to hold back a heave of his own. 

"Talli! Zoltan! Help!!" He cried out at the top of his lungs this time. Zoltan heard it first, and he looked to the healer, before the pair dropped everything, scrambling back into the house. The door flew open, and the healer rushed in. She seemed horrified at first, the sight of the white haired man throwing up black liquid across her floor enough to make anybody pause, but it didn't seem like he was going to stop any time soon either. She grabbed a bucket and placed it in the middle of the puddle, where it would catch most of the vomit, and she rushed back out to grab water and rags. 

Dandelion could feel Geralt's body weakly shaking beneath his hands, and each heave caused the Witcher to moan in pain. His arms wrapped around his stomach, as if it would help ease the pain, but he just couldn't stop throwing up. The bard spoke words of comfort to his friend, but he didn't think they were making much difference, and his thoughts were confirmed when the Witcher's good hand grasped at the bandages on his waist, fingers trying to tear them off so he could claw at the wound. Dandelion had to physically restrain his hand top stop him doing so, and when the healer came back in, Geralt was crying out in agony once more between waves of vomiting. 

"What's happening?!" Dandelion asked, panicked, as the healer began cleaning up Geralt's face and the bed he was laying on. 

"His body his trying to purge itself of the poison in every way possible... it's in his blood, or organs... it's going to take some time for his body to metabolise it, and until then it's going to keep trying to remove it in other ways. I'm going to have to sedate him again, it seemed his body is more resistant than I thought." She explained, trying to sound calm so not to worry the bard. Geralt was writhing though, agony crippling him to the point where he couldn't see, couldn't hear past a screeching in his ears like an explosion had gone off next to him, and he could feel nothing but pain. 

Dandelion tried to restrain him, to stop him from doing more harm to himself, and when the Witcher had finally finished throwing up, Talli opened a bottle, and tipped a bizarre coloured liquid down Geralt's throat. His body naturally swallowed, and slowly his convulsions slowed until he fell still again, his body going limp once more, his breathing evening out. Dandelion shook from adrenaline as he stood back up again, and moved to help clean up. Geralt had made a real mess, projectile vomiting this black slime across the floor for a surprising distance, splattering up the furniture and walls around it. Zoltan kept replacing the water in the bucket, getting rid of the dirty water, whilst Talli carefully re-dressed Geralt's wounds and checked him over.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few days, events replayed over and over again; Geralt's body was going through a cycle of resting, purging, and sedation, until the sessions of purging seemed to become less and less frequent. Eventually, his body seemed to stop trying to purge all together. The darkness around his eyes had faded a little bit, and the veins seemed to have retreated, as well. They remained around his face and neck, his hands, and around the wounds, but the rest seemed to have almost entirely faded. His skin had the tiniest bit more colour in it again, but he still looked like he'd taken a very large overdose of his potions, like he was on the very border of his blood toxicity tolerance.

Dandelion and Zoltan had managed to pursuade the local innkeeper to let them borrow a cart to take Geralt to Kaer Morhen. It had taken a long time, but with Dandelion's way with words, and the fact that Geralt had once done a few contracts for the village so they owed him, the innkeeper finally agreed. They were simply waiting now for the okay from the healer to hit the road. Geralt had been unconscious for most of the time, waking up in agony, only to be forced back under again either by pain, or by the healer's herbal sedation. 

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, the sensation of someone moving his right hand and arm pulling him back to the present. His eyes remained closed though, and he drifted on the very edge of consciousness, not quite sure whether he should be responding to the sensation or not. Fingers squeezed at his swollen wrist, which caused him to hitch a breath in pain. One of his eyes opened a tiny bit to see a dark haired woman stood beside him, eyes focused on his wrist. He frowned a little, then closed his eye again, only to feel a sudden pain shoot up his arm, a cracking sound filling his hearing, and he let out a blood curdling scream, trying to pull his arm free instinctively. Hands pressed his shoulders down onto the bed and another pair moved to hold his muscular arm firmly in place. He struggled in the grip, his hand being pulled and twisted this way and that whilst her other hand felt at his broken wrist to try and tell if the bones were lined up. The pain was too much for his weakened body to handle though, and soon he drifted unconscious again. 

"I'm sorry, Geralt... it's for your own good..." Dandelion muttered under his breath when he felt the Witcher stop struggling beneath his hands. Talli had had to rebreak Geralt's wrist because of his accelerated healing, but none of them had been prepared for it to cause him to wake up... she twisted Geralt's wrist, which had started to heal incorrectly, carefully feeling until the bones were lined up properly. She tied splints to hold it firmly in place, and securely bandaged around the wrist. She wrapped the bandages around his hand then up his forearm and back down again, until it was well wrapped, and there was absolutely no movement in his wrist or hand, aside from his fingers. His hand was black and blue, the bruising and swelling looked so painful, and Dandelion hoped for Geralt's sake that it would still be useable once it healed... he knew the Witcher would be lost without his job, and with a broken wrist there would be no chance of finding Ciri. 

With his wrist finally set in place, she began to bundle together a package, filled with herbs for pain relief, salves for drawing out the poisons, spare bandages and anything else she could think they might need for the journey. She wrapped it up in a sheet of cloth, tying it with twine, then put it with the three friends' belongings. Geralt was left to rest, whilst Dandelion went to see the local tradesmen to see if they had any clothes for the Witcher. He didn't have much coin on him, but he managed to purchase some clothes... nothing armoured or protective like Geralt's usual attire, but a cheap, rather worn out looking second-hand tunic, some trousers, and a cape with a hood. He also bought some animal skins, knowing that the climb to Kaer Morhen would take them up into the mountains where the temperature dropped and snow often fell. Thankfully, the cart had a covered top and wooden sides, just a thin fabric, but enough to shelter then from the worst of the weather. 

Zoltan headed out to do some hunting, gathering food for the journey, some kindling, and clean water and other drinks, just in case supplies were hard to come by when they reached the more remote mountains. A bed of straw was provided in the bottom of the cart, courtesy of the local farmer, who had once asked Geralt to take care of a nest of rotfiends on his land. Zoltan loaded the wagon and prepared it for the journey. He placed animal skins over the bed of straw so Geralt wouldn't have to lay on the dirty wagon floor for the entire journey, and made sure everything was stacked safely to the sides of the wagon. He put harnesses on Roach and on Dandelion's horse, then hooked them up to the front of the cart. Luckily, it was a large cart, designed for transporting barrels of ale and beer to the inn from the local brewery; inside, there would be enough room for the trio to sleep comfortable in shelter. 

With the cart finally ready, the healer instructed Dandelion on how to best care for Geralt on the journey. He took notes in his faithful journal, and put it safely away with his lute in the back of the carriage. With help from the men in the village, Geralt was lifted into the back of the wagon, and Dandelion clambered in as well. They made sure he was secure and comfortable, and with a heartfelt thanks to the entire village for their help, Zoltan took the reins and they hit the road again. 

The journey wasn't easy, to say the least... the weather took a turn for the worse, a storm following them the entire way. Geralt didn't improve much, the poison still gripping his body firmly, as if it would never let go. His fever kept spiking, causing him to fall into periods of fitful sleep, nightmares taking hold of him to the point that Dandelion would have to sit by him, having to mop his skin with a cold wet cloth, and sometimes even rub his arm, shoulder, or even stroke his hair to get him to calm down. It wasn't easy seeing Geralt so vulnerable and weak, and Dandelion was certainly out of his comfort zone... he'd had to tend to Geralt's wounds countless times in the past, but he'd never seen the Witcher like this before, and honestly, they couldn't reach Kaer Morhen soon enough.

Trying to get some fluids and nutrition into the Witcher wasn't an easy task either... he struggled to keep them down, and when he did throw up, his vomit was black with poison. The dark purple veins on his pale skin didn't seem to be improving, either, and from the heat of the wound on his thigh and the redness around it, Jaskier was wondering whether it might be infected. 

As the road began to climb into the mountains, thunder and rain turned to snow and ice. They had to stop more often, because pulling a wagon through the snow wasn't easy on the horses, and so they allowed them to rest more. Unfortunately, this added an extra day onto their trip. The wind blew, and the air grew so cold their breath turned to mist. That night, the three shared the same covers, because Geralt's body wasn't strong enough to maintain its temperature, but also because Geralt burning up a fever turned him into quite the useful heat source. 

The Witcher had drifted in and out of consciousness for the entire journey, spending most of the time laying down, or meditating when he was awake, trying to preserve his energy and heal. It had been a fortnight since he was taken hostage, and he had started to lose weight due to being unable to keep anything down. He felt so weak, every muscle in his body hurt... even muscules he wasn't aware he had. His bones ached, every organ screamed at him, and his skin burnt like it had been submerged in acid. He just couldn't wait for the journey to be over. 


	7. Pain and Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally making it to Kaer Morhen, the group hope that Vesemir can help save their friend and comrade.

When Kaer Morhen finally came into sight, the Witcher had woken up. The jostling of the wooden cart wheels on the rough track leading up to the fort send pain shooting through his body, so much so that he was sure he could feel it in his bones. He was sweating, radiating heat, but his body shivered uncontrollably at the same time. Weary eyes remained closed, lips parted slightly as he breathed, focusing all his attention on keeping his breaths even. Occasionally, he could feel a cold cloth wiping his forehead, his face, and his neck, but he didn't seem to acknowledge it. Occasionally, he'd let out a groan when a particularly hard bump or pothole shook the wagon and caused agony to grip him for a brief moment, and he'd hear a quiet apology from Dandelion, as if the bard felt like he was personally responsible for the rough track. 

Geralt had managed to lose himself in meditation, doing his best to compartmentalise the pain, when the wagon finally came to a stop. Weary eyes pressed shut a little more briefly, then slowly cracked open. He could barely even open his eyes, and when the sound of two familiar voices filled his ears, he attempted to lift his head to see what was going on. His head moved barely an inch before he had to give up again, relaxing and closing his eyes again. He took a deep breath, when suddenly the wagon began to shake, the two men jumping into the back of the wagon. One took one arm, the other took his other, and together, they lifted Geralt to a seated position. They shifted him to the edge of the cart, supporting him in a sitting position as they hung his legs carefully over the edge of the cart then jumped out. His head fell forwards on his shoulders, and he swallowed hard, hitching a breath before opening his eyes just a crack. He gazed at the snow covered ground beneath his feet, then weakly lifted his head to see Eskel and Lambert by his sides. 

His Witcher brethren threw his arms over their shoulders, adjusting their grip on him. They both grabbed a hold of the waistline of his trousers at the back, strong hands making sure to have a good, firm hold on the largest of the Witchers so they didn't drop him. They shifted him to the very edge of the cart, speaking to him as they did so, but he wasn't aware enough to really make sense of it all.

"Ready, old man? One... two... three" Lambert spoke clearly, though really Geraly knew the countdown wasn't for him, and on 'three' they hauled him off the cart. His feet landed on the floor in a standing position, but with his knees not strong enough to hold his weight, his two brothers had to support him. They didn't seem at all phased by the bulk of his mutated body, having done this many a time when he'd got himself injured in a fight, on a contract, or just being outright stupid... though usually he turned up at Kaer Morhen on Roach's back, sometimes sitting up, but most of the time unconscious, or barely, draped over his faithful horse's neck whilst she made her way there by memory. 

His good hand gripped onto Eskel's shirt so tightly from the pain of being moved, and the nausea that followed, that his knuckles turned white. Eskel picked up on this, and he turned to look at Geralt in concern. They paused for a moment whilst the white haired Witcher gathered himself, then slowly they helped him into the keep's main entrance hall. He could barely touch his injured foot to the floor, the pain in his shattered knee, and the wound in his thigh, were too much for him to bare.

They carried him over to the table in the centre of the room, where Vesemir was preparing to examine Geralt's wounds. They felt him grow weaker as they moved, his usually slow pulse increased, his breathing shallow, trembling from the pain. The last time they'd seen Geralt this bad was just after the Trial of the Grasses... and honestly, that scared Eskel and Lambert a bit. 

Slowly, they lifted him onto the table, and Eskel hooked his elbows under Geralt's armpits. Lambert took Geralt's legs, and together they slid him onto the table, lifting his legs up, then lowering him onto his back. Geralt couldn't help but groan as he was moved, but when they settled him down on his back, he quietened, pressing his eyes shut whilst his breathing stayed shallow and a little too fast.

Eskel began to carefully undress Geralt, slowly revealing the extent of the wounds beneath his clothes. His chest was littered with scabbed wounds, some stitched, some not. He had old bruising across his abdomen and ribs, and a bandage, soaked with blood and black toxic pus, wrapped around his abdomen. His hand was still in the splint, and his knee was still bandaged up too, as was the bite wound on his thigh. The black eye had gone now, his swollen lip had gone down too, but the bruising remained in the form of a pale yellowish-brown halo around his eye. His nose was slightly crooked and swollen still too. 

Carefully, they began to remove the bandages on his wounds. The one on his side wasn't too bad... it was large and deep, but aside from the poison it seemed quite clean. He winced as they removed the bandages, letting out a quiet hissing sound from between clenched teeth, but he remained still, his eyes still closed. 

Vesemir began to slowly unwrap the wound on his leg, but as he did so, he felt the heat radiating off it. Geralt winced in pain, and when he finally reached the last layer of bandage, a smell entered his sensitive nostrils that he recognised instantly... infection... 

The old Witcher swallowed hard, and he glanced at Lambert and Eskel briefly, before shaking his head. 

"Lambert... go get me some vodka.. Eskel, hold his leg..." Ves instructed, knowing what was to come. Eskel carefully placed a hand on Geralt's thigh, and another on his shin, pressing down firmly so his leg wouldn't move, and slowly, Vesemir began to peel the bandage off Geralt's wound. As he did so, Geralt cried out in pain, and he struggled weakly against Eskel's grip. The bandage had stuck to the wound, and as Vesemir began to peel it off, it began to weep a foul smelling black pus. 

"You've done a good job of it this time, Wolf..." Eskel mumbled, pulled a slightly disgusted face in response to the smell, and he turned his head away a little, before looking back at the wound. The wound began to bleed again, and as soon as the last part of the wound was uncovered, Vesemir began to dab at it with a clean rag. The pus ran down the wound, the skin inflamed around red around it. Dark veins snaked outwards from the wound, spreading down his leg, and up into his exposed groin area, where they gradually faded into his lower abdomen. 

Sweat glistened on Geralt's now bare skin, yet he shivered the entire time. Eskel and Vesemir stepped back for a moment to look at the damage, Eskel shaking his head a little whilst Vesemir folded his arms, one hand lifting to stroke over his chin. What a mess... it was no wonder Geralt had needed their help...

Lambert returned quickly with a bottle of neat vodka, brewed specifically for cleaning wounds, and Vesemir looked up at the two Witchers, taking the bottle in hand. 

"I'm going to need you both to restrain him..." Vesemir instructed. Lambert knew what was coming, and he'd already moved to Geralt's shoulders. He took a leather strap, and he placed it between Geralt's teeth so he could bite down on it if need be, whilst Eskel took Geralt's ankles. Lambert pressed his weight into Geralt's biceps, and Eskel took a firm grip of the larger Witcher's legs... they weren't looking forward to this... Geralt was by far the largest, and strongest, of the brothers, and moving him was hard, let alone restraining him. They couldn't tie him down though, or he might pull and injure his wrist, shoulder or knee even more. 

As soon as they were ready, Vesemir pulled the cork out of the vodka bottle, and he began to pour it over Geralt's leg wound. The white haired witcher groaned at first, beginning by biting down on the leather strap as the vodka stung his wound, but the stinging quickly turned to a searing pain. He struggled weakly against Lambert's weight, trying to get up and move away, whilst he tried to pull his legs out of Eskel's vice-like grip. Pain tore through his body, and he writhed in response, the groan turning into a hoarse, blood-curdling scream that echoed through the entire castle. It was a sound unlike anything else; primal, wild, and it caused even Lambert's stomach to twist in sympathy for his injured brother. He hadn't heard his brother make such a noise, not since the days of the Trials... It seemed the pain was too much for Geralt's weakened body to tolerate though, and his eyes rolled back, his face relaxed, and soon his limbs followed. Everything around him went black, silent, still. 

Vesemir saw this as an opportunity, and he took a clean cloth, soaking it in vodka. He began to wipe Geralt's wound, the fang marks deep in his thigh muscles, deep enough that bone was visible in one place, where the Andrega had torn at the flesh and pulled at it like a rabid dog. Sliding his cleaned fingers into the wet, hot depths of Geralt's thigh wound, he parted the skin, and poured vodka into it, flushing it thoroughly, wiping around it. Once the visible pus and blood had been removed, he moved to the one on Geralt's side... whilst it looked clean enough, he repeated the action as a precaution, cleaning it thoroughly too. He worked quickly, but even then, by the time he had returned to the thigh wound, blood was running down the hot, red skin that surrounded his infected injury. In the neccessary procedure of cleaning the wound thoroughly, he'd re-opened the areas it had started to heal, and blood pulsed from the wound in time with the Witcher's slow, weak, and uneven heartbeat. 

"Artery partly severed, muscles and tissue torn... likely some nerve damage... bruising and friction burns around the upper though from a tournequet, most likely...if it weren't for their quick thinking, tight bandages, and the balm the healer used, he'd have bled to death a long time ago..." Vesemir muttered, mostly to himself, but also to the other Witchers that now stood beside the bed, waiting for instructions. Vesemir had heard the Dandelion and Zoltan sneak in partway through cleaning the wounds, and whilst they thought they'd managed to go unnoticed, it seemed Vesemir had simple ignored them in favour of giving his complete and undivided attention to his injured comrade. Their presence had clearly been noted though, and it was confirmed when the elder Witcher spoke up, turning to look at Geralt's friends with as kind an expression as the mutant could muster. 

"You should be proud... your quick thinking and first aid may have just spared him his life... without the tournequet and the healer you took him to, there's no way he'd have survived this..." Vesemir nodded in thanks to the two who stood at the far side of the room, looking all the more uncomfortable and out of place now their presence had been acknowledged. They couldn't help but feel a sense of pride though, knowing their actions hadn't been in vain. 

"Going to need to stitch him up, and quick... Lambert, hold the wound open, Eskel, I need you to keep it clear so I can see..." Vesemir instructed as he tied a tournequet around the top of Geralt's thigh to slow the bleeding as much as possible. He quickly moved to grab thread and a tiny needle, supplies they'd looted long ago from a medic they'd been unable to save from an untimely demise. 

As Lambert parted the wound, carefully keeping it open, blood, thick and dark thanks to the poison in his veins, began toweakly pump out, and Eskel did his best to keep the wound clean whilst Vesemir began to work. Together, the artery was repaired, the layers of tissue and muscle joined, and with blood coated hands, Vesemir finally stitched Geralt's skin back together, pulling the sutures tight so they wound't come undone. Eskel finished up by carefully cleaning the wound once more, and dressing it in a bandage. 

Dandelion and Zoltan sat in nervous silence, watching on as Vesemir moved from one wound to the next, removing the tournequet as soon as it was safe to do so. Geralt's side was stitched up next... thankfully, the wound there wasn't as deep, but it was larger, stretching nearly the length of his abdomen. Many stitches later, Vesemir began to clean up and treat the older wounds that had been inflicted by the Witch Hunters. Most of them had started to heal, Geralt's usually quick healing process had been slowed drastically by how weak his body was, how malnurished and dehydrated he was, but even more so by the poison in his veins. His body had already repelled most of it, but some still lingered, enough to leave the web of dark veins on his skin... though now he simply looked as though he had taken too many of his potions and decoctions and had reached the limits of his tolerance. He'd been far worse than that at the healers, so it was a relief to see him looking better compared.

"His blood toxicity is too high to administer potions yet... best just leave his body to fight this naturally, or we might risk causing an overdose and make his condition even worse." Vesemir mused aloud, and the other Witcher's nodded in agreement. Geralt was the strongest of them all, but that would be too much for his weakened body to take. 

Vesemir spent a good while thoroughly cleaning each wound, treating each burn individually, using balms, ointments, antiseptics, whatever was needed in each individual case. His broken bones set, his wounds now finally treated, they moved Geralt with some difficulty. Instead of taking him to his designated wooden bed, they carried him through the kichen to a tower off to one side in a wing of the castle. Up the stairs they went, stopping to adjust their hold on the large man, who was currently like a dead weight in their arms. Dandelion and Zoltan followed on quietly. 

Halfway up the tower there was a door, and opening it, Vesemir held it open so Lambert and Eskel could carry Geralt into the room within. A guest room, usually reserved for people who stayed at Kaer Morhen, often under the protection of the Witchers, was readily laid out. The bed was made, a soft matress with sheets would be more appropriate for the injured Witcher, compared to the wooden cot with a thick bear skin on it. The room was dusty, cold, and mostly empty... it clearly had stood empty for some time now. 

Dandelion rushed ahead and pulled back the covers on the bed, and Lambert and Eskel set the white-haired Witcher down on the soft bed. Eskel headed over to the fireplace and topped it up with dried wood, then with a quick blast of Igni, a fire began to roar, heating up the room quickly. Dandelion busied himself by plumping pillows beneath Geralt's head, and making him comfortable. He tucked the covers up to Geralt's waist, not wanting him to overheat, and dashed off back down the stairs to collect their belongings.Zoltan decided to make himself useful, and he felt that staying out of the way was the best thing he could do right now. He headed downstairs, and out to the stables to clean them out and tend to their horses. 

Eskel and Lambert went to clean up the table they'd treated Geralt on, leaving Vesemir and Geralt alone in the room. The older Witcher placed the back of his hand on Geralt's forehead... he was running a fever still, but it had dropped, even since arriving at Kaer Morhen. By the time Dandelion returned, juggling bags and bed rolls as he stumbled through the door, Vesemir's fingers were pressed to Geralt's neck as the older man silently counted Geralt's heartbeats. His pulse was slow, thready, weak and uneven, which concerned Vesemir so much that the slightest hint of a sad expression crossed the Witcher's face. Dandelion knew that Witchers were stripped of emotion, Geralt being an exception to the rule even though he still only had the emotional range of a spoon, but he also knew from Geralt's tales that Vesemir was like a father to them all... and to see a son so hurt, so unwell... it wasn't easy, even for a Witcher.

"He's lost a lot of blood... chances are, he will be out for some time now..." Vesemir spoke in a hushed and reserved tone, and Dandelion wasn't sure whether it was to himself, or if he was actually addressing the bard. Vesemir turned to face Dandelion, looking a little confused when he saw him laying bed rolls out on the floor of the room. "We... do have some spare beds left..." Vesemir continued, slightly amused at the thought that the Witcher's friend maybe didn't realise the castle had more than one bedroom. He was taken aback, though, when Dandelion shook his head, turning down the offer.

"We'd rather sleep here... in case Geralt takes a turn for the worse... at least until he's stable." Dandelion explained as he unrolled his own bed roll across the floor. "At least, then, there's someone here if he needs them."   
Vesemir was silent for a moment, then he nodded in understanding, and a thankful smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. 

"I hope he appreciates you both... there can be no value placed on true friends..." Vesemir spoke with a kind tone, and he glanced back down at Geralt to check he was still okay. He then turned and headed to the door, pausing on his way out. "If you need anything, I'll be in the main hall..." 

Vesemir pulled the thick wooden door closed behind him, the hinges squeaking as it closed, leaving Dandelion and Geralt alone. Dandelion unpacked his belongings, then grabbing a chair from a desk across the room, he carried it over and set it down beside the bed. Sitting down, he leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed by Geralt's hands, resting his head in his hands. He let out an exhausted sigh, finally allowing tension to leave his body. He'd been stiff with anxiety he hadn't even been aware he'd been carrying, and now Geralt was in safe hands, he let his body relax. His shoulders and neck ached, and his hands moved to rub the back of his neck and shoulders. He wondered whether a bath would be out of the question, but for now, he wanted to keep a close eye on his friend. 

Geralt's breath was shallow, weak, and it almost sounded like he was wheezing. His hair, thick with grease, stuck to his scalp. A couple of strands rested down his forehead, and Dandelion reached out to brush them back from his face. He looked relaxed, his lips parted slightly, his eyelids resting with ease. There was no tension on his unconscious face, not even that permanent threatening scowl that seemed to be etched into Geralt's features throughout his waking life. He looked almost at peace... Dandelion wished he could see Geralt like this, but without the need to be unconscious to acheive it. 

Despite Dandelion's best efforts to stay awake, to keep an eye on Geralt, he failed. Zoltan came into the room a few hours later to see Dandelion sitting on a chair beside the bed. His arms were folded, his head resting on his arms, and his dark hair had messily flopped down over his face. He breathed softly, and Zoltan sighed in sympathy. He knew how anxious Dandelion could get, and how he'd barely slept since they'd found Geralt's location. Ambling over, the dwarf gently squeezed Dandelion's shoulder, causing him to stir. His eyes cracked open, only slightly, and Zoltan gave the bard a kind smile. He urged Dandelion to his feet, over to his bed roll, and as soon as Dandelion's head hit the makeshift pillow, he was asleep once more. Zoltan sat down beside the fire to keep watch over them both. 

The next morning, Dandelion and Zoltan were both given the chance to bathe. Their clothes were washed, and any damage was repaired. Garments beyond saving were replaced with doublets and tunics the Witcher's had in the castle, and with freshly washed hair and skin, clean clothes and full bellies, Zoltan and Dandelion decided to make themselves useful. Eskel was upstairs, chaning Geralt's bandages, so Zoltan began helping the Witcher's with some of their restoration work, whilst Dandelion set about organising and cleaning their library, stocked with books on beasts, history, politics... the extend of books the Witcher's owned came as a shock to the bard, and he couldn't help but feel a warm sense of pride and excitement well in him to find books containing his own poetry and prose amongst them. The next few days, they helped as much as they could, making themselves useful for the Witchers who were kind enough to take them in and let them stay. 

Day four at Kaer Morhen was uneventful. Dandelion was sitting on the bed beside Geralt, who hadn't moved since he'd lost consciousness. His knees were bent, tucked up to his chest with his feet flat on the bed. His back was leaned against pillows, and he propped up against the headboard. On his knees rested his journal, and he was quietly humming away a tune to himself, mumbling lyrics as he tried to work out how the next verse of a song should go, when motion caught his attention. 

In the corner of his eye, something moved, and he turned his head, looking up in the direction it came from. Geralt's left hand moved, his fingers twitching, and his fist slowly clenched, before relaxing again. His toes moved beneath the bed sheets, and Dandelion frowned a little in confusion. 

"Geralt...?" He asked quietly, setting the book down on the bed beside him and shifting to sit more upright. Geralt didn't reply, not that he expected one. 

\----------------------------------------

Geralt was slowly coming to. His entire body hurt, and he was so weak he didn't think he could lift his hand, let alone his head. His limbs ached, and yet were somehow numb which concerned him. He moved the fingers of his left hand, stiff, but he still had full range of motion. Trying his right hand, a pain shot through his wrist, which stopped him in his tracks; okay, so his hand was still broken... next, he wiggled his toes, feeling the fabric of the bed sheets rubbing against them, which pleased him because it meant he still had feeling and motion down both legs. His head was pounding though, and he didn't hear Dandelion speak his name at first, until the sensation of fingers pressing to his neck to feel his pulse caught his attention. 

The Witcher swallowed hard, his throat was painfully dry, and his mouth could only be compared to a sewer. After a moment of silence, his eyes gradually blinked open. Golden irises glistened as the light from the crackling fire caught them, which made it look as though his eyes were made of fire, themselves... but Dandelion could tell he wasn't seeing anything clearly. Geralt tried to focus, his brows furrowing when his vision failed to do so. His head was spinning, throbbing with pain and dehydration. He stared at the ceiling, dry and chapped lips parting to speak. 

"Where a-" Geralt croaked, but doing so caused his dry throat to burn, and his speech turned into a weak wheezing cough that sent pain through his body. 

"Shhhhh..... don't speak..." A familiar voice cooed, almost as if hushing a sick child. Geralt usually hated being mothered like this... so the fact that he didn't made some irritated grunt or any kind of reply in general was a sign of just how bad he was. He felt the bed move beneath him, and the next thing he knew, his head was being cradled in warm arms, lifted slightly, and cool, fresh water was being tipped into his mouth. He swallowed it with ease, eyes closing as the water soothed his dry throat, slipping down into his belly. He swallowed slow sips, the person cradling his head allowing him enough time between sips to adjust, and once he'd finished the water, his head was slowly lowered down to the pillow again. He inhaled as deeply as he could, but it wasn't long before his body carried him into sleep again. 

Dandelion was okay with that, but he made sure to go and find Vesemir, bringing the Witcher to check him over just in case... when the older man was happy Geralt was healing well, he was left to rest in peace. 


	8. Safe Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back ad Kaer Morhen, Geralt finally gets the chance to recover, surrounded by those who care for him.

The next few days were the same... Geralt would only wake briefly, for water, or to relieve himself. Thankfully, he was delirious enough that he didn't even notice when his friends were given the task of helping him to piss... it didn't phase them by now though, thankfully. There was no doubt the White Wolf would have been humiliated if he'd been aware of what they'd had to do for him. 

  
When Geralt came to, Dandelion was sitting out on the balcony, playing his lute as he looked over the snow covered mountains that surrounded Kaer Morhen. The place was stunning, like some romantic fairytale, and Dandelion had found inspiration from the vista many times. 

  
After his time travelling with Dandelion, Geralt usually groaned at the sound of the music the bard played... he'd heard them countless times, and he was tired of them, but this time, the noise was a welcome comfort... he had vague, broken memories of the past month, of the dungeon, of being rescued, of travelling... he remembered the pain when the Endregas attacked, he remembered wishing for death when his body was forced to purge itself of poison. But he didn't remember coming to Kaer Morhen... he didn't even remember leaving the healer's hut. 

Right now, though, the music was a welcome sound... he remembered it, he remembered the songs, and he recognised the voice and playing style, and it brought the Witcher comfort to know Dandelion was here. It triggered some short term memories to come back, the relief when Dandelion carried him out of that dungeon, the warmth of his friend's back as he supported the Witcher whilst mounted on Roach... the gentle touches of reassurance, and kindness that radiated from his every word. Geralt was beyond thankful, as he lay in the bed, weak and in pain, that it was Dandelion who had found him. 

Weak coughs sounded from within the room, and Dandelion stopped playing, turning to look back towards the bed. He could see Geralt's body twitch as the coughs sent pain through his torso. A weak hand lifted to clutch at his neck, dryness once again scratching as the back of his throat. Dandelion set his lute down, and he dashed inside, once again lifting Geralt's head and assisting the Witcher with a drink of water. Geralt took a few gulps, then when Dandelion lowered the cup, Geralt's tired eyes opened, slowly gazing up at Dandelion. For the first time in ages now, Geralt's vision seemed to fix on the bard's concerned face, who smiled back down at the white haired man with sympathy. 

"Greetings..." Dandelion breathed, a quiet response, because he knew Geralt's senses were more sensitive than a human's, and he was unaware as to whether the Witcher had a headache or not. Geralt was thankful for his quiet whisper, because he did, indeed, feel the throbbing of dehydration gripping his skull.

Dandelion gently set his friend back down again, placing the water down on the bedside table. Geralt was still for a moment, his eyes closed, until he shuffled, attempting to sit up. He propped himself on one elbow, but he was too weak to go any further. Dandelion quickly came to his aid, placing an arm around Geralt's back, supporting most of his weight as he slowly sat the Witcher up. He winched as he moved, the stitches tugging in his side, and his weak body shaking slightly. Dandelion packed pillows behind his bare back, and leaned him back until he was sat upright. Geralt's head dropped back momentarily, and he breathed deeply, as if the effort of just sitting up had caused him to be breathless. 

Once Geralt was settled, he lifted his head, and looked about the room, taking in the familiar surroundings... the crackling fire, the furniture, the stones walls and floor, and the view beyond the windows of snow covered mountains. 

"How... long have-" He paused, as if speaking was a drain on his energy, "-we been here?" 

Dandelion reached up to brush some of Geralt's greasy hair back from his face. He studied the Witcher's face, seeing that the darkness of the veins had faded quite a bit, though they were still visible. The bruising on his face had completely gone, just a faint scar across the bridge of his nose now. He had dark circles around his eyes, and his hair looked so dirty it would stay put if they spiked it up on end. A bath, that's what Geralt needed...

"Err.... a week... it's been twenty-five days since we found you..." Dandelion said after a moment's thought. "We came here a week ago, you weren't healing and needed experienced help. The poison was making your body attack itself... Vesemir was the only one we could think of who would know what to do." 

"You brought me here, in the middle of winter?" Geralt managed to croak in surprise, amazed that they'd managed to traverse the mountain paths in the harsh snow of Kaer Morhen, let alone with a dying man in tow. Kaer Morhen was often inaccessible in winter, with snow drifts so deep you could lose a house in them. The winds were bitter, the blizzards painful on the skin. Geralt had to admit, he was impressed. Dandelion's response was a simple nod. 

The pair went quiet for a moment, Geralt breathing through the pain he was enduring, until Dandelion spoke up again. He was usually far more talkative than this, and Geralt was a little concerned about his friend's quietness, but he didn't mention it. 

"How are you feeling?" The bard spoke, tilting his head a little to get a better look at the Witcher's face. The older, scarred face twisted a little and his shoulders moved in a tiny, weak shrug. 

"Awful... I feel like I've been run through a mangle... and I stink." Geralt's nose wrinkled a little in disgust. It wasn't abnormal for Geralt to smell; he spent much of his professional life wading through sewers and swamps, up to his knees in guts and gore, covered in blood and who knows what else... but usually he could find somewhere to bathe soon enough... Geralt had only had one bath since before he was captured by the Witch Hunters, though... that was half a month ago, and he felt the oil on his skin, the dirt in his pores. He could feel his hair sticking to his scalp. Dandelion hadn't really payed much attention to it before, but now Geralt had mentioned he, the man did reek. He stank of old sweat, of dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids. Dandelion felt awful... he'd done his best to keep Geralt clean, but there was only so much a wet rag could do. 

"I'll go get Vesemir." Dandelion said with a gentle squeeze of Geralt's shoulder, then the bard dashed off out of the door. Geralt's head rested back against the headboard again and he sighed, focusing on his breathing and falling into meditation.   
Vesemir came up the stairs not long after, pleased to see the White Wolf awake and coherant. He examined Geralt's wounds, undressing them. He was pleased to see that they'd stopped leaking black poison, and were now weeping normal coloured blood and healing fluids. The infection seemed to have settled down a bit, though not entirely, and the dark veins that spread from the sites had faded significantly. Once Vesemir was satisfied it wouldn't do him any more harm, the old wolf ordered Eskel and Lambert to fill the tub that sat across the room, hidden behind a wooden screen for privacy. 

The other Witcher's offered to stay and help, but Geralt refused, wanting nobody there, except Dandelion... yes, the other Witcher's had seen him naked before, they'd helped him bathe in the past when he'd suffered from exceptionally bad injuries, or got himself into such a state that he was unable to do so on his own, but Dandelion was different... the Bard had seen him bathe before... in fact, the Bard had washed him down before, but unlike Dandelion, the Witchers lacked a certain gentle touch, and a sympathetic approach. Dandelion would be careful of his wounds and his weakened state, whereas his brothers, try as they might, were just too heavy handed. 

Eskel would have been his second choice, had Dandelion not been in the room. He and Eskel shared a certain brotherly bond that Lambert and Vesemir just couldn't replace... but even Eskel wasn't gentle enough to handle the injured man right now. Eskel did stop longer than the others though, heating the water in the tub with his Igni sign until it steam spiralled into the air. Geralt liked his baths as hot as he could withstand, and so Eskel heated it til it was just how he liked it. He brought some clean trousers and a white linen shirt into the room, along with some clean towels to dry himself with, then left the room, closing the door behind them. 

Dandelion hesitated, waiting for Geralt to be sure he was ready, and as soon as he was given permission, Dandelion unlaced the front of his trousers. He gently moved Geralt's leg, careful of his injuries, and pulled them down, then removed them from the other leg. The Witcher winced in pain as he moved, but it wasn't long until he was sat naked on the bed. Dandelion supported him as he carefully turned on the bed, assisting him to put his feet on the floor, then standing up, the Bard slotted his hands beneath Geralt's arms. He grasped onto Geralt's side, and Geralt placed his hands on Dandelion's shoulders. 

"Alright, grandfather... on the count of three..." Dandelion teased softly, and Geralt grumbled, but couldn't hide the fond smirk as one corner of his mouth turned up. He had missed Dandelion teasing him, about his white hair, how old he really was despite his appearance, his mutations... he'd missed that so much.

"One.... two... three." As the Bard finished counting, Geralt's eyes pressed shut, and he leaned forwards, pushing his weight into Dandelion's shoulders. His good hand squeezed, to the point that it almost hurt the Bard, but Dandlion knew he only did it because of the pain that was running through his entire body. His weight shifted onto his good leg, and Dandelion supported his weight, using his arms to balance the larger man as he composed himself. 

As soon as Geralt's head stopped spinning, and he seemed to gather himself, Dandelion shifted and wrapped Geralt's left arm around his shoulders. The Witcher could hardly weight bare on his injured leg, almost hopping, using his friend as a crutch as they made their way over to the tub. There had been a chair placed beside it to help Geralt get in, and Dandelion sat him down momentarily. 

There were some petals floating in the water, the scent of herbs coming from the swirling steam... they'd infused the water with herbs for healing, for cleansing and disinfecting the wounds. Dandelion lifted Geralt's injured leg up, placing it in the water slowly, then did the same with the other. The hot water lapped around Geralt's calves, and he couldn't help but release a groan as his aching, travel-worn feet relaxed. Dandelion moved behind him, and he lifted Geralt's arms a little. From behind the Bard hooked his arms beneath Geralt's and using the strength in his legs, he lifted Geralt off the chair. 

"Melitele's tits, Geralt! You're as heavy as a rock troll!" The Bard practically squeaked as he slowly lowered the bulky man into the water. The Witcher's body instantly tensed, not really registering Dandelion's words, as the water washed over his wounds. They stung, burning like the water was fresh poison, biting at the stitched and open wounds. He hissed initially, eyes pressing tight shut as his body hunched over. It was like he was instinctively curling into a ball, and the moment Dandelion heard a pained whimper escape Geralt's throat, he placed a reassuring hand on the white-haired man's shoulder. 

"Remember, Geralt... breathe..." Dandelion reminded him. Geralt was thankful for this, because his training seemed to kick in in response. He breathed slowly, deeply, and did his best to focus on his breathing until the initial pain subsided to a dull sting, which eventually faded altogether. Finally, Geralt leaned back in the tub, sinking down until just his shoulders and head stuck out. His eyes closed, his head leaning back as the heat of the water hugged his body, relaxing his muscles. The water washed his skin clean of dirt, and grime, and Geralt was so thankful for the relief. 

There was a long silence, a moment of stillness in which Dandelion allowed Geralt to soak, to allow the theraputic heat to ease the pain in his body. Geralt's eyes closed, and his head leaned back in bliss.   
Eventually, Dandelion grabbed a bucket, and a jug, and he gently tilted Geralt's head back so his hair was over the edge of the tub. He filled the jug, and gently poured the water down over the Witcher's hair, allowing the waste water to fall into the bucket. He repeated this a few times until the silver strands were soaked, then he began to wash Geralt's hair with a mixture of herbs and oils. The bard's nimble fingers gently massaged the Witcher's hair, golden eyes closing as a deep, pleasure filled groan left his lips.

The bard had spent many a night travelling with the Witcher, sometimes sharing a room, sometimes in adjacent rooms, or sometimes under the stars... he'd heard Geralt make some noises, that was for sure, and Dandelion could only compare it to the sounds Geralt made at the end of his many passion filled hours with women from across the continent... the thought caused Dandelion to flush a little, but he continued to massage concoction of clove oil, vetch, and powder of natron into his scalp. He rinsed it off thoroughly, then repeated a few times until Geralt's hair felt clean and fresh. 

Dandelion then slowly began to wash Geralt's body down with a soft cloth, careful of the wounds and broken bones, and when the Witcher was clean, Dandelion stepped back out to the balcony and left Geralt to soak for a while.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The Witcher had no recollection of when he'd nodded off, but the water was beginning to grow colder when he stirred, opening his weary eyes with a wide yawn. His head lifted from where it had fallen backwards over the edge of the tub, and he lifted his hand to rub his face with his palm. He couldn't remember the last time his body felt this relaxed... or clean for that matter... 

He lingered in the water for some time more, until he felt it growing too cold for his liking. Slowly, he shifted his weight and tried to get up, but pain shuddered through him, causing him to groan and fall back again. He closed his eyes, letting the pain pass once more, but jumped when he felt hands slip under his armpits. His eyes shot open and he looked up to see Dandelion's friendly smile peering down at him, and relaxed with an audible sigh. His Witcher senses must have got lost amongst the strange mixture of pain and bliss. 

Geralt felt the tug on his armpits and he was thankful for Dandelion's help as he was assisted to his feet and out of the bath. Dandelion wrapped a towel around his waist for modesty, then draped another over his back, sitting the Witcher down on the chair beside the tub. A third towel was wrapped around Geralt's head, gentle hands squeezing to soak water from his hair. Geralt's right arm was held against his stomach whilst his left hand pulled the towel around himself. He slowly rubbed himself over with one of the towels, being careful not to touch his wounds or hurt himself. 

Finally clean, Geralt felt a lot better already, but he was exhausted now, the effort it took to bathe had taken it out of him... he needed more rest, so with help from his friend he was assisted back to the bed, where he soon fell asleep again in no time.


	9. Digging Six Feet Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter! I'm such a derp, I accidentally posted chapter 8 again at first! Apologies! It'd been a long day haha.

It was another week until Geralt was able to walk on his own. His wounds had mostly healed now, the worst were still scabbed over, but the bleeding had stopped. His knee still hurt, but he could finally weight bare on it, and the movement in his right hand had returned, although there was still a deep ache whenever he tried to grip anything. He'd remained in the room for most of the week, resting, sleeping, or just plain bored out of his wits. Dandelion and Zoltan came to keep him company now and then, though when Geralt began complaining about Dandelion's constant talking and repeating his songs over and over again, the bard knew he was on the road to recovery at long last. Zoltan was good company, playing Gwent with him to keep him occupied. They placed bets, Zoltan insisting on Geralt keeping the coin because he had gone so long without a contract. Zoltan tried his best, but Geralt almost always won... though he always managed to slip the prize money back into Zoltan's money pouch when he wasn't looking. 

Eskel was sitting with Vesemir, studying the dissected corpse of a very old Fiend, when Geralt finally appeared in the main hall of the keep. They heard uneven footsteps at first, and when motion caught their eyes, the two Witchers glanced up to see Geralt come limping into sight from around the corner. He looked like placing weight on his leg still caused him some pain, but he managed to walk... well... hobble his way over to where the huge Fiend was spread across the stone floor. 

Geralt's hair was pulled back into a ponytail, his beard was unruly, scruffy and untrimmed. He was wearing his white shirt as usual, his general choice of attire when he had the chance to relax, and a pair of woollen trousers with leather padding on the knees. His boots were buckled up, slightly looser on his right leg than the other because tightening it too much aggravated the bruising that still remained from the broken knee. His hand was bandaged up so the joint was supported, and his knee thigh was still well bandaged as well.

"Geralt, you look well. How are you feeling?" Vesemir smiled softly, signalling to a chair next to the table they sat around. Geralt nodded his head once in thanks, then placing his hand on the table to take his weight, he lowered himself into the chair, sitting back and relaxing. "How are you feeling?" 

"Much better." Geralt said honestly, absently rubbing at his right thigh. The wound had healed mostly, but the stitches remained. The nerves around the wound had been damaged, meaning that the area felt numb and tingled when touched, a bizarre sensation to say the least. The stitches in his side tugged with each breath, but it no longer hurt. "Think you could take these sutures out?" 

“I’ll take a look.” The old wolf said, and Vesemir was on his feet, ambling over to wash his hands in some clean water. Geralt lifted his shirt over his head, bundling it up to place it on the table. Eskel glanced over, eyeing the larger man's torso, partly in admiration, but partly in concern. Geralt had far more scars than the others... likely because he took on far more dangerous contracts, and far more frequent contracts. Whilst Eskel's face had suffered the most disfigurement, Geralt's body had suffered worse... and the number added recently by the Witch Hunters had Eskel's blood boiling. He swore silently to himself that he would find them, and slaughter each and every one of them... 

Geralt felt eyes on him, but ignored it as he looked down at the scar on his side. One end, where the deepest lacerations had been, was still a little scabbed, but the wound had closed. Even if the stitches couldn't come out of his leg yet, he'd be happy if the ones in his side could be removed... they were itchy, and irritating, tugging with every breath. 

Vesemir came over, bending down to take a look, whilst Geralt lifted his muscular arm up out of the way. Once satisfied the wounds had healed enough, he headed to get a sharp knife, then returned to Geralt. He pulled a small stool over and sat down beside the white-haired man, and he began to cut the stitches out, one by one. They tugged, a causing Geralt to wince a tiny bit with each suture removed, but once they were out, he glanced down to see it had healed surprisingly well. Next, Vesemir asked him to remove his trousers. 

Geralt got up, slipping his trousers down to his ankles, and he sat down on the chair, letting Vesemir study the wound. It wasn't as well healed, thanks to the infection it had suffered... it was going to scar... badly... the skin around it had been pulled into odd shapes, the scar tissue visible was tight, a hollowed area sunken into his thigh where the bite had taken a chunk of flesh out. He knew it would be one of his worst scars, but honestly it didn't bother him as long as his leg still worked. Vesemir was satisfied that it was healed enough though, and again, he carefully removed the sutures. Geralt didn't even flinch this time, the numbness of the area apparent. Once Vesemir had finished, he checked the wound, Geralt glancing down as well. It was weeping still from one end, a little fresh blood escaping, but barely a drop.

Vesemir grabbed a clean bandage, and he wrapped Geralt's thigh again to catch the fluid as the wound cleaned itself, and he got up once more, allowing Geralt to dress himself again. He felt much better with those stitches out... 

"Where's Dandelion and Zoltan?" Geralt finally asked as he tied the laces in the front of his trousers. He glanced around, now aware of the suspicious silence that was usually ruined by Dandelion's ramblings. 

"They went out... insisted on seeing the sights." Vesemir shrugged as he sat back down. Geralt couldn't help but feel a hint concern regarding that... hell, unless he had slept for a few months, the last he remembered it was still deep winter in the mountain pass. It was tricky to traverse for a Witcher, let alone a human and dwarf. 

"How long have they been gone?" Geralt asked, the concern rising in his voice, which surprised Vesemir slightly. 

"Not even an hour... don't worry, in this snow, they won't get far before they turn back." Vesemir shrugged. He'd assumed that they would struggle, get tired, and turn back pretty quickly... but that was what worried Geralt... Vesemir didn't know the pair like he did. 

"Hmm..." Geralt mumbled, looking out the window to see the snow falling in large flakes, though it wasn't a blizzard, so that was a good thing. He wasn't convinced at all, but he figured he'd give it time... Vesemir was older, wiser... he was often right. Besides, he didn't feel like venturing out, not in his condition. He sighed, eyes scanning over the Fiend again. It was oddly quiet, none of the sarcastic quips flying through the air that he was used to hearing, and he finally realised there was a Witcher missing. "And where's Lambert?" 

"Messing with another Dimuritium bomb formula... thinks he can make one far more powerful than its predecessors." Eskel spoke up, the disbelief was strong in his tone of voice. He often didn't approve of Lamberts more... explosive hobbies. Whilst Eskel preferred to fish with a rod, the traditional manner, Lambert always preferred to just drop a bomb in the water and collect what floated to the surface. The difference between the two Witchers was astounding, one preferring a more peaceful approach, whereas the other preferred to work smarter, not harder. Geralt, on the other hand, was more old-school in his approach, but he could certainly change things up now and then, as and when required.

Geralt didn't reply though, his brows had furrowed, and he was staring unseeingly at the floor in front of him. His hand idly rubbed across his middle, a dull ache twisting his stomach like someone had reached in and wrapped their hands around it. He was yet to eat a decent meal, the Witchers slowly introducing him back to food. They were well aware of refeeding syndrome, and the symptoms, although mild, lined up with what Geralt had presented when he'd first arrived at Kaer Morhen. He had lost weight, that was definite, and even his muscle mass seemed to have reduced too, though minimally. They had noticed, whilst he was resting, that his heart sometimes missed a beat, his breathing was weak at the most critical times... they needed to be careful, he wasn't out of the woods yet. 

"There's some stew on the fire... should be ready by now." Vesemir suggested as he glanced over, noticing Geralt's hand stroking his stomach, the look of discomfort etched into his face. Geralt blinked, then turned to look at the older Witcher. He seemed reluctant, at first, but soon he was pushing himself to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the edge of the table, before he turned and limped off to find a bowl. Vesemir watched the Witcher  go, letting out a sigh, then turned back to Eskel. 

"Haven't seen him this bad since the Trials..." Vesemir admitted quietly, so only Eskel could hear. The dark haired Witcher nodded in agreement, watching as Geralt disappeared into the kitchen. He could tell the mentor was concerned about the White-Haired one... Vesemir saw the Witchers he'd trained like his sons, much like they looked to him as a father, or like Geralt was a father figure to Ciri. Out of the three younger men, Geralt was most like Vesemir, which is what concerned the older man... he knew Geralt could be stubborn, proud even, so seeing him weakened was a shock.

"Just another week and he'll be back to his old self." Eskel assured Vesemir, patting the old man on the arm, before getting to his feet to follow Geralt, feeling a little peckish himself. Vesemir could only hope Eskel was right...

Eating his fill, Geralt was soon left feeling drowsy. He headed back through to help Eskel and Vesemir, trying to keep himself awake out of concern for his friends, but the experience he’d had, and the energy his body was using to heal left him struggling to stay awake after a short while. He was leaning on the table, his arms folded on the table top as he watched the other two  Witchers pick the body of the Fiend apart, but his eyes were slowly closing. Despite his best efforts, his eyelids grew heavier, closing further with each blink, until eventually his head drooped, landing on his folded arms.

It took a while for the other  Witchers to notice Geralt nodded off. As Eskel turned around to grab a book he’d left on the table Geralt sat at, he noticed the Witcher hunched over, cheek squashed up as he slept. His breathing was slow, peaceful, and the poor man looked exhausted. Eskel nudged the older Witcher, who turned to look at what Eskel was watching, and he sighed at the sight. They couldn’t leave him there; he’d ache when he awoke. Vesemir pulled his cloak off the chest he’d placed it on, and he draped it over Geralt’s shoulders.

The Witcher didn’t stir, a testament to just how exhausted he was from the toll taken on his body. Vesemir made sure the cloak was securely covering him, keeping any potential cold draughts off his body. It was mid-winter, after all, and as the years passed, the keep grew more and more draughty and run down. Vesemir then returned to the Fiend, leaving Geralt to rest. 


End file.
